Leaving

I always feel I’m forgetting something when I leave a friend’s home.

Like my phone missed my pocket or I left a bracelet by the sink; as though I took off more clothing than I put back on. The truth is recently one of a pair of gloves have gone missing two separate times. I double check my pockets, my purse, my wrists, my ears for an earring that might have slid out. I do so more frequently than before graduating, unsure if week or a month or a year will pass before I see my friend again. Perhaps I do it to spend that little extra moment or minutes talking or searching for that thing that was in my sweater pocket, not the jeans or coat pocket, the layer in between. Perhaps I do it as an excuse to get mail; I happily await the arrival of the one glove in my mailbox. Or maybe it’s just extra reason to text that friend again even if it’s to ask about that missing item and then discuss something you hadn’t quite finished chatting about.

And then I realize I do leave something behind but not from disremembering I laid my scarf on that chair or not checking my bag or my pockets. I haven’t forgotten anything; but what I’ve left behind isn’t tangible. Sure a little of myself remains in skin and breath and fingerprints but there is something bigger left. There is more of my memory there, more of my life turned into fixed points on my timeline and theirs. I leave behind a memory, a promise to see them again, that abstract piece of my heart I no longer hold myself as I get into the car.

I am not forgetting something as I leave a friend’s house, I am remembering everything.

Creative Commons License
This work by Sarah Holmes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported Licensem

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