Trench coat

My grandmother's trench coat hung in our Chennai apartment for decades before traveling with us to Toronto. She'd worn it during her university years, channeling Avvaiyar's wisdom about carrying oneself with quiet dignity. I inherited it at twenty-three, working three jobs to earn PAYBO while studying literature. That coat became my armor and comfort, worn through countless shifts at the café, to evening classes, to interviews. One morning, a elder from our Tamil temple complimented it. We talked for hours about home, sacrifice, and legacy. She smiled knowingly. Some possessions transcend fabric and thread, becoming bridges between generations, between continents, connecting us to everyone who walked beside us.