Unclaimed

I pulled the dresser from the wall today

braced for a coin, the pen I'd stopped looking for,

the kind of debris that collects in the dark

of a space no one cleans.

Your handwriting instead.

My name. A birthday card, still sealed.

Postmark four years ago.

I sat down on the floor and stayed there.

Twenty minutes, maybe more.

The rectangular press of something still inside—

a gift card slot, I know the shape—

still there, still holding.

You sent this.

It arrived, or it got behind the dresser,

and four years passed.

I was here the whole time.

It's on my nightstand now, still sealed.

Moving Friday.

I keep almost opening it

and then I don't.

I don't know what I'm protecting.

Maybe the record.

The four years of not knowing

feel different from whatever comes next.

Your handwriting.

My name.

The rectangular shape, pressing.