Evidence

I found them in a box

where she kept

the ordinary sacred—

ticket stubs from movies

I didn't remember

we had seen.

Arranged by date.

Chronological. Careful.

Each one a proof

of a Saturday we'd sat

in the dark together,

her shoulder next to mine,

her hand probably

in the popcorn bucket,

her attention somewhere

on the screen.

I don't remember most of them.

I was young. I was thinking

about my own things.

I didn't know she was

keeping score,

collecting evidence

of moments

I was half-present for.

She died, and suddenly

the stubs mattered.

Suddenly I could see

the pattern she had made,

the years she had documented,

the hours she had invested

in sitting next to me

while I looked elsewhere.

I wish I could tell her

I understand now.

I wish I could say

I see what you were doing,

I see how much you cared,

I see how you made a record

of the time we spent

in the dark,

counting moments

I didn't think

were being counted.

But the box is just a box.

The stubs are just stubs.

And I'm here holding

what she kept,

finally understanding

what it cost her

to keep it,

finally seeing

that love is sometimes

just showing up

and sitting in the dark

next to someone,

hoping they notice

eventually.