I'm back in my childhood bedroom, sorting through boxes. My mother's things, mostly.
On the nightstand, a silver lighter. She quit smoking twenty years ago. Never threw it away.
Next to it, my old soccer trophy. The figurine's head is snapped off, glued back crooked. I remember the game I broke it.
And I remember the regular at the diner counter—Mrs. Delgado—who always saved my mother the last sugar packet. She'd wave us over on Sundays.
I pick up the lighter. It's empty, but I can still smell the butane. My mother kept it because she liked the weight of it in her hand.
The trophy goes in the donation box. The lighter I slip into my coat pocket.
Maybe I don't have to let go of everything. Maybe some things I carry forward.