It was the same purple, velour zip-up jacket that I convinced her to let me put on over her nightgown on the day that she was too weak to let me change her clothes for her, the day the paramedics wheeled her out of her house for the last time.
It was the same purple, velour zip-up jacket that I wore to warm myself in her far-too-heavily-air-conditioned Hospice room, the day we moved her into Hospice, the day she asked me to leave so she could be alone, the day I threw up in her bathroom, the day she changed her mind and asked me to sleep on her two-seater couch while she took a nap in her chair.
It was the same purple, velour zip-up jacket that came back to us in a generic white bag with the blue Hospice logo printed on the side, the day her belongings no longer had an owner, the day her jacket was formless and empty, without a body to give it shape.
It was the same purple, velour zip-up jacket that made me cry myself to sleep on the floor last night.
It is the same purple, velour zip-up jacket that I will take with me back to Cape Town and wear when I need to remind myself of her struggle and her pain and convince myself that she is indeed in a better place.
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