What Stays Behind

The card was faded, wedged

in the gap behind the dresser

all these years. Dust

had settled around it

like it was something to protect.

Your handwriting. I knew it

once the way I knew

my own face in the mirror—

without thinking, without

looking. Now I have to read

the words slow, like they're

in another language.

Happy birthday, you wrote.

I remember being happy then.

I remember your voice

on the phone saying things

that mattered. I remember

the way you laughed

at the stupid things I said.

That's gone now.

The dust is thick. The envelope

is coming apart at the corners.

I could frame it. I could throw it out.

Instead I'm holding it like it's proof

of something—that we were close once,

that you cared enough to write

my name in that careful way,

that I cared enough to keep it.

Even if I can barely remember

what it felt like, your kindness.

Even if I don't know

how to call you anymore.

Even if the words I used to know

by heart have scattered

like dust, and I can't

get them back.