Still Carrying

I almost threw it away today.

The receipt from the restaurant,

the name barely legible, the date

faded to something between then

and now. My coffee ring on the back—

evidence of what I was drinking

while I waited for something

to change.

It's been two years.

The fold creases are worn.

I've bent this receipt a hundred times,

opened my wallet and seen it there,

and thought about throwing it away.

I've gotten as far as the trash

three times. Maybe four.

But I never do.

So I'm cleaning out my wallet,

pulling out old receipts, old cards,

old evidence of a life I was living

before I started just existing,

and I find this one, and I hold it

like it's going to tell me something,

like a faded receipt from a restaurant

is going to explain why I keep it.

Maybe it's sentiment. Maybe it's the night

it represents, the person I was,

the possibility that something

was beginning instead of ending.

Or maybe it's just cowardice.

Maybe I keep it because throwing it away

means admitting that I've already thrown

everything else away, that I'm good at

leaving, that I'm the kind of person

who walks out of restaurants

and never goes back.

I put the receipt back in my wallet.

I close the wallet.

I don't throw anything away.