i know you won't read this. Someone might. But you won't. I'm not stupid. Naive perhaps, but not stupid. This account will change nothing. Barely a catharsis. A poorly structured narrative with a crumbling foundation built on wet sand.

But maybe theres a hope. A slim, follicle thin, foxhole prayer of a hope that the very mention of what you did will somehow initiate a modicum of change. A butterfly flapping its wings causing tremors in the pacific kind of alteration. Maybe, once the final period is in place, you'll get a chill or pinpricks on the back of your oily neck. You'll wake from a dream of a familiar place and you'll be stricken with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Cold sweat, maybe. A tremor, hopefully. Some sort of physiological chain reaction that will freeze blood. Shock will set in. Veins will shunt. Limbs will go numb. You won't know why.

But you'll know. You'll know.

And I'll know. That you know. 

And maybe I'll sleep better. Maybe my unease will transfer to you like some sort of ethereal presence.

   But I know better.

This is mine to carry. For good. For all time. White knuckle on the steering wheel with the remembrance.  It hits me often, but with no warning. Because its mine.

What you did is mine.

May, 2008. It was hot. Dusty. Dirty.

You went into the laundry room. You took my laundry bag. Not my clothes. Just the bag.

I had to tie the sleeves on a t- shirt and carry the laundry inside of that, instead.

You owe me a bag.