What the Mind Keeps

The mind keeps what it wants: a kitchen, amber-lit, the weight of a glass jar in a child's two hands, the exact pitch of a screen door in July, and nothing of the year that followed after. There is a mercy in the shape of what we lose — it rounds off, smooths, becomes a river stone. You forget the argument but keep the drive home, the streetlights strobing through the windshield, almost kind.