I put on my mother’s undershirt, my mother’s socks, her splash pants, the gloves I found at the very back of her closet underneath the misshapen afghan she knitted 40 years ago, my father’s fleece sweater—the one I bought for him some time before he died—and my father’s Tilley hat (given to me by my brother after my mother’s funeral.) Thus clothed, I find I am ready for any kind of spring weather. The cold rain cannot penetrate to my raw skin.