Closing

I opened the bag.

The velcro came undone with that sound—

the specific rip, the friction,

the resistance of worn strips

pulling apart after years of being

opened, closed, opened, closed.

My hand froze on the closure.

The bag was faded purple or blue

or something in between. I haven't

used it in years. It sat on a shelf.

But that sound.

It was exactly as I remembered it.

That exact texture of noise,

like something reluctant

to separate. My hand stayed there

on the closure, not moving.

Inside: lint. A receipt.

Nothing that mattered.

But the sound was like the bag

saying my name. Like an object

remembering who had held it,

what hands had worked

these velcro strips open

and closed, open and closed,

so many times the sound

had worn grooves in my memory.

I opened it again. The sound

was the same. I closed it.

Same sound. The bag knew.

My hands knew. Everything

but time was moving.