What Stays Behind

I opened it for the registration.

Found the old one.

From the Honda.

Sold two years ago.

The paper was creased,

the ink faded where I'd folded it,

my name in handwriting I didn't write—

the dealership's—

a person I've never met

signing my name to a form,

thinking it mattered,

that I'd remember.

I can't throw it away.

Tried.

Held it over the trash

and my hand wouldn't open.

So it stays.

In the dark of the glove compartment,

loose under the registration for this car,

this life,

this version of myself

I'm still living in.

Two years since I sold the Honda.

I can't remember the color.

Can't remember the year.

Can't remember if I liked it.

But I remember this paper.

This proof that I was somewhere once,

that I owned something,

that my name matters enough

for a stranger to write it down

and file it away,

and I matter enough

to keep it

even though it's worthless,

even though the date

is dead,

even though

I can't remember

if I was happy then.