The coat ticket was still in his pocket

Dear Delyara, “Keep your ticket. They lose coats here.” That was the last ordinary thing my husband said to me before his heart stopped during the concert. We were halfway through the second movement when his hand slipped from mine. At first, I thought he had fallen asleep. Tonight, four months later, I finally took his winter coat to the charity shop. The volunteer checked the pockets before accepting it and found the little paper cloakroom ticket from that evening, number 217. I recognized it immediately because mine had been 218. I stood at the counter with strangers waiting behind me while a piece of paper no bigger than two fingers returned an entire night: the violin, his warm shoulder, the ambulance lights against snow. I took the coat back. The volunteer looked confused, but I could not explain that I had been ready to give away wool, buttons, and sleeves. I had not been ready to give away number 217. The coat is hanging in our hallway again. Mine is beside it. Two tickets are now inside one pocket, 217 and 218, because some part of me still wants proof that we arrived together.