A Barbour jacket

An ancient, knackered Border. Twice told it was uneconomical to repair, my father bought another to replace it; but hoarding to the end, this was never thrown away. 

Its history is folded, creased, rubbed and worn into it. Soap is no friend to waxed cotton, and the result is a coat with what some call 'character'.  

Character: the dirt that stains the collar, cuffs, lining, and the pockets; from him, of him, all that's left of him, like the hair still in his brushes. The traces he left become larger than their marks: dead cells gathered among what remains; the back's bowed fabric time-moulded round an absence, as if supported by the physical void he left.