My father's denim jacket sat in the back of my closet for five years. I'd never had the heart to throw it away.
Last month I pulled it out, just to smell it. I shoved my hands in the pockets out of habit.
There was a receipt. From the diner on Main, the one with the blue sign. He took me there every Friday after Little League.
Date: August 8, 2009. Total: $23.50. I remember that day — I struck out three times and he didn't say a word. Just ordered me a burger.
Down in the basement, a mousetrap I'd set in the spring had finally caught something. The landlord's teenage son, who was fixing the water heater, found it and came upstairs holding it with tongs, apologizing. I told him it was fine, old thing I'd forgotten about.
I put the jacket back on its hanger in the closet. But I took the receipt out and slipped it into my own wallet.
Some things we hold onto because we can't let go. Others stay with us because they never really left.