It is in the back of my closet, sometimes the front. It’s home unclear as I keep it for memory not use. Made of sacrificial silkworms and factory hands, a dress that’s value is in who wore it last. I cannot release these things that Sarah touched. The memories living and breathing inside a tie-dye tank top, a hand-made card that will never be sent and a silk dress still in the clear plastic sheath she returned it in. 

My fear being that the memories die, just like she did. That one day I receive another call saying she is gone, again. If I keep these things, is she still here? I have shed the other mementos—the dress I wore to her wedding and the pants we bought when we dreaming of the future—for sake of sanity and proving I could. But just these few items remain. They hold no practical purpose now. They are simply silent confessions of fearing death’s finality. 

And then a small laugh as I think of walking into heaven to present my friend with these proofs of dedication to a life she has left behind. There is no room for tokens in eternity. A lesson I am still learning but Sarah knows now.