Still Carrying

The concert ticket fell out

when I pulled out my ID at the pharmacy.

Purple paper, faded to gray,

the date still readable,

seven years ago,

the edge creased from being folded,

refolded,

carried.

I picked it up off the floor

before anyone could see it,

before anyone could ask

why I was keeping

a piece of paper

worth nothing.

But I know why.

The concert was good.

The person I went with

was good.

And then they weren't,

and the ticket stayed,

a bookmark in my life,

a reminder of when

that person was still there,

still important,

still part of my wallet,

part of my body,

part of the things

I carried

everywhere.

I could throw it away.

I've thought about it

a hundred times.

Each time I move,

each time I reorganize,

I hold the ticket,

I read the date,

I remember

the sound of the music,

the way they stood next to me,

the way I thought

it would always be like that,

and then I put it back

in my wallet

where it stays,

purple turning to gray,

paper getting thinner,

the crease getting deeper.

The pharmacist called my name.

I put the ticket back

in the small fold

where I keep the things

that don't cost anything

but won't leave

my pocket.