The photo.(Short story)

I remember that coat, double breasted, angled pockets with flaps. My mother had ordered it from the David Jones catalogue. When I first put it on, it was so large I walked inside a few steps to get to the front. Those cold days though, under the coat I had layers. Undies, singlet, petticoat, blouse, tights, a bias cut checked woollen shift, cardigan and a knitted hat. I'd lost my gloves. Or that's what I said, I really never had a pair. You can't see my hair, just as well--the part was never straight. Rebecca's was. Her coat fitted, smooth. Like her hair, smooth even plaits, pale and silky. Even now thirty-five years later, I would like to play with her hair. Asking to ...