Three years now and I still can't get rid of his jackets. They hang in the studio closet like a weird audience. Sometimes I reach for one when I'm cold and forget it's not mine. The sleeves are too short on me, which should remind me it's his, but it doesn't. It just feels like a sweater that shrank.

I've cut up so much of his other stuff for pieces. The flannel went into a collage last spring. His old T-shirts became rags and I caught myself feeling guilty about it, which is stupid, that's what they're for.

But the jackets stay. I don't know what that's about. Maybe I just like having them there. They're ugly. That brown corduroy one is genuinely terrible.

Anyway. The studio's a mess today, paint everywhere, and the jackets are the only clean thing in the room.