In the narrow aisle of a city grocery between rice and dried beans,          I squeeze past a woman holding       a can of kidney mouthing sorry—always apologetic for the air           in my lungs and that that mere fact might incite someone. I crouch to swipe a bag of jasmine, and    as I stand, she says I’ve realized     none of the moments in my life               are worth keeping. And I know     she’s not talking to me as she places the can on the shelf, picks up another, and walks a few steps, so  I see the phone in her hand. Looking down at the grains           in mine, I see my Keds, think about my many pairs—some in my closet, others scattered between former homes like the ones with the wine splatter from Rome.           I think about their different degrees                    of deterioration, how I don’t know why I can’t get rid of the ones in my childhood bedroom that sit next to the bin of high school passed notes and concert ticket stubs. I wonder if there’s still water in those bottles I kept from my brother’s graduations, why I still have that 8th grade cotillion dress—        mint green and sateen. I wonder if the journal my mother kept when I had grand mals will show up if I continue to rearrange her bookshelf, if her ring                       will reappear among my dead aunt’s jewelry, if I should have   told him that I loved him  the moment I felt it—                       hand pressed against the rear window of the car I eventually sold for 1,000 bucks just 270 miles short of 300,000—if I’ll better know what things to stow in the future.