What Couldn't Hold

I found it in the drawer,

this rubber band from years ago,

still holding its shape,

still remembering the thing it used to grip.

I wrapped it around a stack of papers.

Just some bills. Just some things

I needed to keep together.

The band held for maybe thirty seconds.

Then I felt it go.

The sudden slack.

The sudden surrender.

When I opened my hand,

the two pieces were still curved,

still holding the shape

of what they used to do,

still remembering their job

even after they'd given up.

For a moment, maybe two,

they looked almost whole.

Almost like they could still do it.

Almost like the snap hadn't happened yet.

Then they went limp.

Just pieces of rubber.

Just the memory of elasticity.

Just the failure, complete.

I held them for longer than I should have.

Kept waiting for them to spring back,

to remember how to be whole,

to do the one thing

they were designed to do.

But rubber bands don't recover.

Once they break,

they stay broken.

The memory of the shape

isn't the same as the shape itself.

I threw them away.

Or I didn't.

I don't remember.

I just remember the moment

right after the snap,

when they were still curved,

still trying,

still pretending

they hadn't fallen apart.