My coworker laughed when she saw it

My coworker laughed when she saw it.

Not mean—just the sound someone makes

when they see something that doesn't fit.

"Why do you keep that?" she asked, like it was

obvious that I shouldn't. Like there was

a statute of limitations on holding onto

proof of who you used to be.

The lamination is peeling at the edges.

My face at nineteen—not exactly worse,

just different. Uncertain. The photo shows

someone who believed the ID meant

something, who thought he was entering

a place that would make him real.

It didn't. But I keep it in the cup holder

like it's a parking pass, like it's permission

to be here.

She didn't ask again. We drove in silence.

But I kept thinking about the card,

about how I'd never even used it—

graduated and immediately misplaced it,

then found it years later in a box

and put it in the car like it was valuable,

like someone might ask to see it.

No one ever does. I don't even know

what I'd prove if they did.

The lamination will finish peeling soon.

The card will just be a thin piece of paper,

the face blurrier, the information

less official. And I'll still keep it there,

in the cup holder between old receipts

and a pen that doesn't work, because

throwing it away means admitting

that whatever it was supposed to mean

never quite arrived.