small marks on my palm.
"i've had this with me since i moved away from my parents."
"i can't take this."
"i want you to have it."
"why?"
"because it reminds me of better things to come, and now, i want it to remind you."
"i'll be fine."
"for me."
"ok."
and you took the small, tarnished st. christopher's medal and put it around your neck. tucking it into the collar of your shirt, you looked at me with a slight smirk. "you're so superstitious."
"yeah, well, stick with what works."
a few months later, when i stepped into your empty apartment that we used to share, my eyes fell to the bedside table with your glasses, your phone, your chapstick, your pocketwatch, and the st. christopher's medal ... trying to remind me.
you'd been in the hospital for three days; you couldn't breathe, and i couldn't eat. our cat was screaming for attention. half a glass of water still sat on your desk. your bookbag was leaning against the footlocker. i took out "the people's history of the united states" and flipped to the page you'd dogearred. i don't remember what it said, just looked at the words swimming, one breath away from screaming.
i slept in your bed with your old comforter that you couldn't bring yourself to throw away. when i woke up, the only thing i could tell head or tails from reality was the tiny red impression in my skin that the st. christopher's medal left.
i took it with me when i left the second time, kept it in my pocket, touching it occasionally, wondering what it would remind me of now.
