The night before the move, I was pulling drawers open and dumping them into trash bags. That was my packing system. Brutal but fast.
In the back of the kitchen drawer, behind a mousetrap I'd set six months ago and completely forgotten, I found the apron.
Navy blue, stained at the hip where I always wiped my hands. My name stitched in white above the pocket. From the coffee shop job I left two years ago.
I should have thrown it out. It didn't fit anymore, not the straps, not the life. But I held it up and it still smelled like espresso grounds and the cinnamon I'd knock into the steam wand every Wednesday morning shift.
I stood there on the kitchen floor, surrounded by half-packed boxes and dust, and just breathed it in.
I folded it back up and put it in the keep pile. Some things aren't useful anymore. They're just true.
The movers came at seven. I didn't explain why one small apron rode shotgun with me all the way to the new place.