Mending

She kept the coat after the winter left, its elbows shining like a handled stone. I offered her a new one, light and warm; she thanked me, then unpicked the broken seam.

“You cannot mend it back to what it was,” I said, and heard how young my answer sounded. She held the edges level with her thumbs: “I have not asked it to be new again.”

The needle travelled in and out of sight. Outside, the street was changing all its names. I watched her leave a little room for movement, a narrow surplus hidden in the join.

When she let go, the coat lay on her knees, not rescued, not returned, but fit to wear. I thought of what I had called making good, and folded up the bag I brought it in.