I wish that I could fold you up and tuck you in my jeans pocket, but that would defeat your purpose.
You weren’t meant for the recesses of my jeans pocket, nor the fathomless pits of lint and loose chance. You weren’t meant for the warmth of my thigh or the chill of my fingertips on a cool evening. You were meant for something greater.
You were meant for display and memorial.
It’s been five years to the day since he gave you to me. Golden, thin, and fragile paper turned into a crane. A stand-in for the golden ring he would get me.
Until the train wreck.
They say he went peacefully. In the arms of a woman who thought it necessary to chat with him on his way to work that day and bother the other passengers.
Maybe she was there, because I was should have been. A golden stand-in. Something irreplaceable.
I wish that I could thank her, fold her up, and tuck her in my pocket.