Why am I sentimental about this threadbare sheet?  Because it’s been with me for twenty years, almost my entire life, through thick and thin (now quite thin).  I know it’s on the verge of tearing, and it’s transparent in the middle swath.  No holes yet, but I know it’s coming, and in the threadbare spots, there’s almost nothing at all.

I have this other sheet, that’s newer and not translucent or about to rip.  It’s not all discolored and worn.  But the color is wrong; the cloth is stronger, yes, but wrong; the taut elastic binding isn’t breaking down, but it’s wrong.

But you know what’s really and truly wrong?  The idea, not of replacing it, but of tossing it in the bin.

After months of dragging my feet, I’ve swapped it for a newer sheet.  But I washed the old one, telling myself I would throw it away, but not while it was still in need of washing.  And then when I pulled it out of the dryer, I folded it up in a muddled square and put it in a drawer.  I’ll throw it away later.  Or that’s how I reasoned with myself.

I even called my parents to see if they still needed old sheets for covering their plants in the winter.  But it wasn’t right for what they needed.  And I had to admit that it probably wouldn’t do much good.  Because as I already mentioned, it’s quite threadbare.  And the plant leaves would undoubtedly be its doom in one quick moment with their needle points.

So now I was back to square one, with a clean, old sentimental sheet folded in my drawer.  And I said, “I’ll wait and throw it away when I need to take the trash out but haven’t quite filled the bag.”  Because I often need “filler” trash when the bag starts to smell but isn’t full yet.

And here I am today, with a bag of trash that needs to be taken out.  That isn’t quite filled to my satisfaction.  And I remember my reasoning.  But it just seems wrong.

So what do I do?  I sit down here and write through it all.  I don’t think I even realized until that urge came upon me that my poems and stories are often just that: ways for me to process my emotions when I feel strongly about something and am struggling to express what exactly I am feeling.  (Which right now, is pretty silly.)  Feeling too much to keep it in, and not knowing how to share it except through written words.

Holding on to the sheet.  Holding on to this writing exercise as an excuse for more delay.  I’m not sure I’m ready even now to throw it away, but perhaps I’m one step closer—

One step closer to wrong.  One step closer to betraying this faithful sheet that I have personified way too much and imagine has feelings that will be hurt if I just toss it in the trash.  Probably some psychologist would conjecture a deeper meaning to this.

But really, I’m just sentimental and nostalgic and hate parting with things that tie me to the past in some special, if perhaps mundane, way.  So, sheet, when (if) I do discard you, here’s my tribute for your years of service.  I can’t say I won’t forget you, but I can say it’s quite unlikely I will.