What I Carry Instead

The paper's gone soft at every fold,

the blue ink faded, barely there—

a number a nurse wrote when the cold

of that hallway was everywhere.

She said just in case and I said thanks

and put it behind the library card

from the town I left. The way a plank

stays in a drawer. Not discarded,

not used. Three years. The ink still reads

if you look. Today it fell at the counter

and a woman asked if it was something I'd need—

I said yes. Without pause. I found her

face go soft a little. I paid and left.

The ink still holds. The number. The shelf.