A grey suit

A WG Jennings suit from 1963; the oldest of my father’s suits, made for him in his 20s.
 

When my father died, my mother offered the choice of his suits to her brother; this was among the ones he took. When I found out, I almost cried; and the suit was returned to me.   

I would curiously paw this jacket as it hung bow-backed and lifeless in his dressing-room wardrobe. Its musty labyrinthine thread back to his past, to his youth, fascinated me; and does still.
 

A close, military cut - shoulders-back tight across the back; calico pockets stained brown, with age, dirt, sweat, and blood from fingers. Triple-holed by moth, I’ve not worn it in a decade. But if I never wear it again, I need to know it’s there in the back of the wardrobe.