The Things I Keep

I have this habit of gathering things

long after they’ve stopped belonging to anyone else.

Maybe it’s a family trait.

My mother used to pocket smooth stones

from riverbeds she swore were lucky.

My father kept ticket stubs

from movies he barely remembered.

And me?

I collect moments that don’t know they’re moments yet.

.

I gather the way some people breathe.

A look between strangers on the bus.

The warm hush before rain.

The half-laugh someone tries to hide

because it came out crooked.

None of it asks to stay,

but I hold it anyway,

cupping each small thing like a firefly

that keeps choosing to glow.

.

Some evenings, when the room feels a little emptier

than I’d like to admit,

I sift through what I’ve stored.

Childhood summers tucked into the smell of cut grass.

A friend’s voice echoing across years

as if it never learned to fade.

The slow, patient way certain people say my name

when they’re trying to say

you matter.

.

I gather so the world won’t slip past me.

So I can stitch the days into something gentle.

So I can remember that even the quiet parts

carry their own weight of wonder.

.

And maybe that’s the truth beneath it.

Not that I’m afraid to lose things,

but that I’m learning to keep what keeps me.

.

So I go on collecting.

Not trophies.

Not proofs.

Just the small, shining pieces

that remind me how to stay human

in a life that moves too fast to catch.

.

I gather them close.

Not because they last forever.

Because they don’t.