There is a hole in my front pocket.
At least, I think there is. What other explanation for the coins and keepsakes that litter the ground in my wake? Marking the passage of otherwise inaudible footfalls. What started with the occasional lost memento - a nickel here, a baby tooth there - grows larger with each step. As do the forfeited items. Ticket stubs to shows I’d never forget. An imperfect conch shell that whispered of perfect faraway lands. First dances. Last rites. Every new deposited curiosity forcing an older one out of the bottom. In time, the collectibles will barely ripple the frayed fabric as they pass straight through these faded jeans. I’ll turn to retrieve all that was lost, only to find a history scattered to the winds.
And she’ll pull me from the reverie with a gentle squeeze of my hand. A sly smile to coax one more block out of tired legs. For more trinkets await discovery around the next bend.
Happy Anniversary, babe. I love you.
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