What Lasts

I held the plastic bag

for longer than necessary,

not ready to throw it away,

not ready to commit it

to the trash.

It was thin, translucent,

the kind of bag that crinkles

at the slightest touch,

that tears if you're not careful,

that feels like it should dissolve

if you held it in your hands long enough.

But it won't.

That's the thing that got me.

That's why I stood there

holding it.

This fragile nothing

will outlast everything.

Will be here in a hundred years,

in a thousand,

will still be part of the earth,

will still be part of me somehow,

because I used it once,

because I held it,

because I threw it away

and now it's mine forever.

The plastic crinkled in my hand.

I could feel how easily it could break,

how simple it would be

to tear it into smaller pieces.

But that doesn't matter.

It would still be here.

Just in pieces instead of whole.

I dropped it in the trash.

It settled on top of the other things,

just another disposable,

just another thing we use once

and forget about.

Except I can't forget.

I'm thinking about it now,

still thinking about it,

thinking about how the thing I held

for thirty seconds

will still be here

when I'm gone.