After my meeting wrapped up, I stopped at a small café. I ordered a coffee and waited at the counter.
Suddenly, the door opened behind me, and I turned around. An elderly man had walked in. He was moving slowly, counting coins in his palm, bundled up against the cold. He looked like he might be homeless.
And he was wearing my son’s jacket.
Almost a year later, I was in another city for a business meeting.
Not like my son’s jacket, but the exact jacket he’d taken before leaving for school that day.
I knew it wasn’t just a similar coat because of the guitar-shaped patch over the torn sleeve. I’d sewn that on myself, by hand. I also recognized the paint stain on the back when the man turned toward the counter and asked for tea.
I pointed at him. “Add that man’s tea and a bun to my order.”
The barista glanced at him, then nodded.
The old man turned. “Thank you, ma’am, you’re so—”
“Where did you get that jacket?”
“Add that man’s tea and a bun to my order.”
The man glanced down at it. “A boy gave it to me.”
“Brown hair? About 16?”
The man nodded.
The barista held out his order. A man in a suit and a woman wearing a pencil skirt stepped between the old man and me. I stepped sideways to get around them, but the old man was gone.
