I never liked it. It was too big on him. There’s a tear in the seam of the right sleeve that I don’t think even he knew about—but I did. It drove me nuts. I could always see the loose thread dangling when he’d scratch at his head, or lift his arm to heal me, or point at some monster that was coming our way. And then there’s the color … it isn’t very good at all. It made him look pale, and he isn’t … wasn’t pale. That thing washed him out and swallowed him up and made him seem smaller than the big thing he was. I hated it. I hated that he looked so wrong without it. And I hate that when we went to bury him, I couldn’t let it go into the ground too. So now—it’s hanging on the hook on the back of my bedroom door, and every time I try to go to sleep at night, I see it there. I see it, and I hate it even more, because I never loved it so much. Loose thread and all. Two sizes too big—ugly coloring … it’s perfect.
And it’s empty.
I hate it.