Just 44 degrees this morning here in Malibu, which means the group of us who wake and walk at dawn dwindles. It also means that, even though it's fur, which I normally never wear, my grandmother's coat comes out of storage.
It's a puzzler, this coat, a mid-century mink, sedate save for the zig-zag zoom-zoom lining. My grandmother's coat, which sometimes still smells of her perfume. She was classy, beautiful and tall, one of those Parisiennes who knew how to knot a scarf just so, who, though she lived nearby for decades, never visited the Eiffel Tower.
I wonder what she'd think of her coat now, worn with jeans and rain boots to walk the dogs, a tennis ball in the pockets that once held theater tickets or opera glasses or a monogrammed hankie. I'd like to think it would be "très bien," but "sacre bleu!" is closer to the truth. She'd smile while saying it, though, pull you in for a quick kiss, for a breath of that sweet perfume.