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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I found an old shoebox today~ not where I left it, but where time had pushed it, into the corner where dust gathers like unspoken apologies. Inside: a ticket stub bleached pale by sun, the ghost of a rollercoaster’s scream, Mother’s hairpin, crooked as a question mark, and the scent of rain on hot pavement before the storm hit. Funny, how the things I keep are never the things I meant to hold. The shoebox is lighter now, but my hands remember the weight of all the afternoons I didn’t save. I close the lid. The past doesn’t fit anymore.
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