Writers 
I found a receipt
for my life
at the bottom of my drawer.
It was longer
than I expected.
One childhood:
paid in scraped knees,
unfinished games,
and questions
adults refused to answer.
Three friendships:
paid in laughter,
secrets,
and one terrible betrayal.
Seven years of pretending:
paid in full
with pieces of my peace.
Two broken hearts:
non-refundable.
One dream postponed:
payment still pending.
I stared at the numbers
for a long time.
There was no price
beside my mother's smile.
No currency
for the mornings
I woke up grateful
without knowing why.
No discount
for surviving days
I was certain
would destroy me.
At the bottom
was a line I almost missed:
TOTAL: EVERYTHING YOU HAD.
I laughed.
Then I cried.
Because suddenly
I understood
why people spend
their entire lives
collecting things
they cannot carry
into the next room.
We count money.
We count followers.
We count houses,
cars, degrees,
titles,
achievements.
But nobody teaches us
to count afternoons.
Nobody says,
“Be careful.
You only have
so many sunsets left.”
Nobody warns us
that one day
the last ordinary Tuesday
will happen,
and we won't know
it is the last.
So I folded the receipt
and placed it back
inside the drawer.
Not because
I wanted to forget it,
but because
I wanted to remember.
Tomorrow,
I will call someone
I keep saying
I will call.
I will wear the clothes
I have been saving
for a special occasion.
I will laugh without
checking who is watching.
I will take the long way home.
I will sit beneath
the evening sky
and allow myself
to do absolutely nothing.
Because perhaps
a meaningful life
is not measured
by what we managed
to accumulate.
Perhaps it is measured
by how much of ourselves
we were willing
to actually spend.
And when my final receipt
is printed,
I don't want it to say:
“She saved everything.”
I want it to say:
“She used it all.”
Her courage.
Her laughter.
Her love.
Her time.
Her life.
