Digging for a spare pen, I found the hospital bracelet instead. Faded blue plastic, her name in smudged ink.
I moved two hundred and ten miles away at twenty-two. Took a job at the hardware store in the city.
My father's old winter coat still hangs in the closet. Sleeves too long, shoulders too wide. I wear it every December.
My niece is learning to drive. I watched her parallel park yesterday, biting my lip the whole time.
She doesn't know about the bracelet. Doesn't know I kept it all these years.
Two-ten miles isn't far. But it was far enough to start a different life.
I cut a spare key for her today at the shop. She'll need it soon.
The bracelet stays in the drawer. Sometimes the road you didn't take is just the one that's still waiting.