The tip jar at the diner had a note taped to it: 'Surgery for my daughter.' I counted the change inside. Fourteen dollars and some pennies.
I thought about the can of paint in my apartment closet labeled 'touch-ups.' I bought it to cover the nail holes where her family photos used to hang. Never opened it.
The physical therapist gave me a rubber band to stretch my hamstrings. Said it would help the lower back I wrecked on a run through Pennsylvania last winter. I keep it on the dresser.
I kept the key to our old house on a hook by the door. She changed the locks months ago. I still don't know why I can't throw it away.
That waitress with the tip jar had a daughter and a surgery and a hope pinned to a crumpled note. I left a twenty and walked out. Some things you keep because they remind you someone else is fighting, too.