What I've been carrying without knowing

I opened the glove compartment

looking for the registration,

looking for proof

that I owned this car,

that I had paid for it,

that it was legally mine.

Instead, I found

a catalog of years.

An insurance card

dated 2019.

A receipt from a gas station

I don't remember visiting.

A pen that doesn't work.

Three quarters.

A penny.

A note

written in someone else's handwriting—

a name I almost recognize,

a message I can't quite read.

I pulled the note out,

unfolded it,

tried to decipher

what they'd written.

The ink had faded.

The paper was soft,

worn from being folded,

refolded,

opened and closed

how many times?

I don't remember putting it there.

I don't remember receiving it.

I just know it's been in the glove compartment,

accumulating dust,

accumulating years,

accumulating the weight

of things I've forgotten

but carried anyway.

There was more.

Another receipt,

another card,

another piece of the life

I've been living

without paying attention,

just throwing things

into the dark compartment,

closing the door,

driving on.

The registration was there too,

somewhere in the pile,

buried under

all the other things

I'd been carrying

without knowing.

I found it,

closed the compartment,

drove to the inspection.

But I didn't forget

the note,

or the handwriting,

or the fact

that I've been carrying

things for years

without knowing

what they were,

who they were from,

what they meant.