Since October

I don't remember buying it.

The receipt says October 3rd,

which means I've kept it all year,

folded in the lining of my coat,

and the ink has gone gray,

and the date is still readable,

but the item—

the reason I bought whatever this was—

has gone completely blank.

Some days I'd reach in for my keys

and feel it there,

that thin rectangle,

and I'd think: I should throw that away.

And I wouldn't.

Some days I'd empty my pockets

and see it fall onto the dresser

with the change and the other receipts

and the things that don't have a home,

and I'd think: this is the day,

this is when I decide.

And I'd pick it back up

and put it back in the coat,

same pocket,

same fold.

A full year of carrying proof

of something I can't remember,

something that mattered enough to buy

and not mattered enough to keep track of.

The coat is getting warm enough

that I'll switch coats soon,

and I'll find another receipt, probably,

and I'll carry that too,

because this is what I do.

I carry the evidence of purchases

I can't remember making,

I carry the weight of a decision

made by someone I used to be,

and I pretend

the carrying means something,

that forgetting the purchase

but remembering the receipt

is a kind of loyalty

I owe to someone

I no longer am.