Buried in the last of the snow, shining for no one to see, I stood over it and smoked, reminding myself to breathe.

I kicked it with my shoe, compelled to pick it up, knowing somewhere deep that today there would be no good luck.

It hid in my pocket while we were given the bad news, as our world fell it was indented in my hand with my lighter and tissues. 

Days later it rolled across the floor as I finally got changed, I rushed to grab it, hold it close, feeling deranged. 

It sat on my bedside table while we put him in the ground, giving me a hope I could barely say aloud.

Days that felt special, days that felt like shit, I’d put my hand in my pocket and clutch to feel it.

And then, on the first day when I felt truly fine, I put my hand it my pocket and found it gone, no longer mine.