The Weight We Stop Remembering

The tag fits in my palm.

Eight pounds, the plastic reads.

I can't remember what that meant anymore—

the specific press of it against my ribs,

the way a living thing

settles into your arms.

Two years and the body stops

keeping the score. I held the tag

and tried to add the weight back.

Nothing.

The lettering is worn to ghosts.

Phone number faded.

I kept it anyway.