Unknown

The container was white plastic.

The lid was clear.

Inside, the condensation had won—

water beaded on the inside of the lid,

obscuring whatever was in there,

whatever had been left

too long ago to save.

I didn't open it.

That was the mercy.

I could have looked.

I could have peeled back the lid

and seen what rot

had claimed what I forgot.

I could have named it,

identified the failure,

the specific way

things fall apart

when nobody's paying attention.

Instead, I held it

like it was evidence

of something,

and I dropped it

into the trash.

There's relief in not knowing.

There's grace in throwing away

the thing you'll never have to

look at,

never have to describe,

never have to hold responsible

for taking up space

in the cold dark.

Sometimes the kindest thing

is to let it go

opaque,

still a mystery,

still possible

to forget.