Accumulation

I was just looking for a pen.

Just needed something to write with

while I waited for the light to turn green.

But the glove compartment

opened like a confession,

like someone had left their life

in a small dark space

and forgotten to clean it out.

A receipt from 2022—

a restaurant I didn't know they went to,

with someone else's name

handwritten on the back.

Insurance papers,

the registration,

both of them touched so many times

the corners were soft,

the edges worn thin

from fingers that weren't mine.

I knew their handwriting from texts,

but this was different—

this was their hand on paper,

in a space I wasn't supposed to see.

There was dust.

There was a pen cap

without a pen.

There was a gum wrapper

from a brand I didn't know they chewed.

I was holding their life

in a compartment

meant for gloves.

I closed it quickly.

Too quickly.

The way you close something

when you've seen too much,

when you know something

about someone

that they didn't mean to tell you.

For the rest of the drive,

I kept thinking about that receipt,

about the name written on the back,

about the dust,

about the fingerprints

worn into the paper

from hands that reach in

and out

and in again,

year after year,

leaving traces.

I didn't mention it.

I handed back the keys

and didn't say anything

about what I'd found

in that small dark space.

But I know now

that we all carry

our accumulated

small abandonments

in the spaces we don't clean,

in the compartments

we stop looking into,

in the corners where

our hands have worn away

the finish.