Evidence

The seams gave out. This fell through—

a receipt, browning, the ink almost gone.

December 2019. A place I've never been to,

that closed three years ago. Someone

ordered something small. Left a tip.

Two dollars on six. A deliberate grip

on what it means to be kind

to strangers. I'm trying to find

the words for this—holding

evidence of someone's small holding

of another person's labor.

The paper's dissolving. The number

of the tip stays visible longest.

That's what the glue holds: the strongest

proof that someone believed

in small gestures. I've grieved

for people I've never met.

But here's what I can't forget:

two dollars. A Tuesday.

A stranger's arithmetic of mercy.

The receipt is coming apart.

Soon the date will be gone. The art

of it—that someone made

a choice to leave something laid

behind for me to find years later,

not knowing it would matter.

I keep it in my pocket.

I know eventually it will rocket

back into dust.

But for now I have this:

proof someone cared.

Small evidence that we've dared

to be kind to each other,

even when no one will discover

it. Even when it's just paper

and ink and a gesture. A vapor

of kindness that I'm still holding.