I’ve had my jacket for years.

It’s been on me through a gruesome accident involving a motorbike, and a much less serious, though harder on the jacket, crash on my bicycle. It’s kept me not-quite-warm-enough in Japan’s winter, and too hot in the Cambodian rain. It’s not particularly stylish, and it’s not fancy gore-tex, or anything like that. The zipper broke a week or two ago, and at first spent I most of each day really meaning to fix it, I youtubed the process and squinted at the teeth to confirm they’re okay, but now I’ve settled into a sort of quiet acceptance, walking with my hands in my pockets to hold it shut against the wind. It has the right pockets – one for my ebook and passport, soft and zippered, a small one on the arm for my knife, which has made it twice through Asian airport security, but got spotted and temporarily confiscated at Istanbul Modern, a small exterior one for my mp3 player, and when I’m worried about pickpockets, my phone, and side pockets big enough for gloves, toque, and camera. And hands. I love it. It isn’t perfect. I also love my boots, which I’ve had only a few months, but they’re easy to love. Hard-wearing, waterproof and light and supportive, they bring me constant joy. My jacket doesn’t bring me constant joy. When the day turns out too warm, I wear it longer than I should, getting sticky in its cloying embrace, because it’s heavy and a bit unwieldy in my bag. But I love it. Some things are easy to love, but those things are easily replaced. Sometimes love comes with time, and shared experience, with respect for abilities and acceptance of weaknesses. I won’t ever buy a jacket like this one again, but I’m not sure I’ll ever throw this one away.