I had never witnessed Norm so utterly engrossed by something of material significance. He slid the coat off its hanger and, shouldering the bulky hide, stepped before the mirror. Few people could have pulled off a look like that; he resembled a veteran mountaineer.
"It really looks good," I said.
"Yeh, not bad, huh?" It wasn't immodest; it was true. He replaced the coat and, giving it a long look in parting, strolled out of the store.
"That was some coat," he raved. Norm talked about it all the way home.
Half-way home I knew what I was going to buy him for Christmas.
The following afternoon found my dad and me on the highway, heading for the colony so I could buy the sheepskin coat. Clenching my purse, I couldn't wait to relinquish the folded bills in my wallet.
"This is going to be the best Christmas!" I exclaimed.
Dad looked at me as if I had slipped into lunacy. I hadn't expected him to understand; he was too bitter about my recurrence of cancer.
I thought of the previous Christmas when Norm had given me the gold watch necklace. I had been flabbergasted, not only because of the great expense, but because of the love expressed through its purchase.
The coat was a similar expression, plus a great deal of gratitude. I needed to say thanks in a way that would last. I never stopped to calculate the length of a lifetime, but believed the coat would survive that long.