About the work

He’d picked up the tunic at a rummage sale, years ago, for a joke party where everyone was supposed to come as their least likely self. He had gone as an ancient historian. The joke was on him, he supposed, since he now wore it more often than anything else. It was comfortable, the linen soft from so many washes, and the deep pockets were useful for carrying all the things he collected—stones, stray feathers, forgotten receipts. It had seen him through two broken-down cars and one particularly bad winter. The only thing it hadn’t quite managed was to keep the sun from beating down through its light weave.