I had a coat just like this when I was in the third grade. I convinced myself it was cut from bear fur. I wore it to school on cold winter mornings all the way down London Lane, Pikes Peak Mountain in the distance. By afternoon, the sun was warm against my back, and my coat swung back and forth, side to side, on the wrench hook of my head all the way back up London Lane. That Purple Mountain hovered over me like the beast forming shadows on my latchkey days. I was little then, and my mom worked on Cheyenne Mountain. I missed her so much after school, but not as much as I miss her now.