I'm in a motel room off the interstate, the first cold morning of fall. The heater kicks on with a rattle.
I pull out my wallet to count bills. A boarding pass falls out, folded so many times the paper is soft as cloth.
I've kept it for twenty-three years. It's from the flight I took to see my youngest when she was born.
I'm a locksmith in an oil patch town. I've kept keys from houses I'll never see again, each one a story.
I kept a photo of the three of them, creased down the middle from being in my shirt pocket.
I kept the receipt from the diner where we had breakfast after their mother left. It's faded to almost nothing.
Tonight, in this motel room, I realize I'm still keeping all of it. Not because I need to remember, but because I never learned how to let go.