Sunday evening laundromat on Main Street. The dryers hum the same song they did in '78.
Someone left a crossword on the folding table, done in blue and black pen. Two people, finishing each other's clues.
I think of Bob, my fishing buddy for thirty years. He doesn't fish anymore. His hands can't grip the reel.
I keep my first pair of channel locks in my truck. The grips are gone. They still fit a nut better than anything new.
I keep my wedding ring. Took it off once to reach inside a compressor. Nearly lost it in the oil. Never again.
I keep a photo from our fortieth. My wife laughing, me holding a wrench like a trophy.
The last AC I installed was a little window unit for a widow three blocks over. She cried when it kicked on cool.
I fold my shirts. The crossword goes into my pocket—maybe the owner will miss it. Maybe they won't.
This is what I've kept. Not riches. Just the things that still need me, and the things I can't let go.