I’ve been tracing my fingers along the seam of a fastball for too long.
There’s a space in the back of the attic for memories like these.
For newspapers, crinkled and yellow, with my name on them.
For European pictures.
There’s a place in the attic for all the ideas on post-its that I fell in love with, that I never quite made it to.
Not defeat. Just storage.
There’s only so much space when you fly with carry-on baggage, and I can’t keep carrying on like this.