What the Floor Remembered

The bin was gray, cracked at one corner

where the lid had never sat right.

My brother lifted it out and I took it—

the bottom was cold.

On the floorboards, a rectangle of dust

in the exact outline of where it had been.

Years of that. The floor remembered it

better than I did.

Inside: a cassette tape with no label.

One earring, silver, the back missing.

A note folded twice, in handwriting

I had to study before I recognized as mine.

I don't know what I wrote.

I held it the way you hold something

you might put down again without reading.

Then I put it in my jacket pocket.

My brother was already in the closet.

The house sells in three weeks.

The dust outline is still there on the floor.

Nobody is going to sand it.