Nothing is as sad as that which has been usurped. Today I find my old wallet, hidden beneath a pile of newspapers. Even removed from its purpose, even deflated and empty, my old wallet in an object so familiar as to stir unprovoked memories. Its shape has taken on the shape of my body, my hands; a moulded history of every transaction, every payment, every losing and finding.
I pick it up and the wallet flips open, easily, without my even thinking. I explore its every flap and fold and pocket, looking, perhaps, for a scrap of my past I had forgotten to remove. I used to quietly enjoy cleaning out my wallet, taking pleasure in the thought delay of an unfamiliar business card, or a scrawled paper note. All these people I had met long ago, all these places I no longer remembered, carried so close to me for so long. That other set of memories.