What I Kept

Pulling the jacket from the back of the closet,

that receipt fell out—

a thin gray slip of nothing,

the ink so faded I had to squint

to read the date.

For a year I kept it.

In the same pocket,

folded the same way,

so it became part of the jacket,

part of the lining,

part of the way the fabric held

something close.

I don't remember what I bought.

I don't remember why it mattered

enough to keep.

But I did.

I carried it the way some people carry

a photo, a note, a reason.

I carried it like it was proof

that something had happened,

that I had been there,

that I had chosen something

and followed through.

Now it's just a receipt.

Just a piece of paper

that could have been trash

a year ago.

But I kept it.

For a year.

For no reason at all.