She remembered the coat.

She’d been fifteen.

It was navy and it came from the outlet mall and she had worn it for four years.

I read it three times and I put it in the drawer of my desk, and it is still there.

I never wrote back.

I’ve thought about it many times over the years and I’ve decided something about myself, which is that I am capable of forgiving her and I am not capable of resuming with her, and that these are two different operations that everybody insists on treating as one.

I don’t wish her harm.