Most of it has disappeared.
I lost some flip flops in a lake once, when I was drunk. I walked barefoot to my car the next morning.
The car I drove here in—my first car, a black Saturn SC1—I cried over as I sat with my husband at the Mazda dealership, trading it in for something more dependable.
My Abercrombie clothes were sent to Goodwill as I replaced them with slacks and sweater vests.
I sold my books to Half Price Books, the religious ones, at least, because I don't believe in God anymore.
My CDs are still here, but only because no one wants CDs any more. Stacie Orrico. Backstreet Boys. Joe Diffie (there's something women like about a pickup man).
And I still have my notebooks filled with poems. And a chapbook from my undergrad writing professor. I still have pictures. And a couple of camp T-shirts. A little remains, but mostly, what I carried east has blown away like dandelion seeds.
What remains reminds me of who I was.
And on the right days, when the wind doesn't blow, of who I still am.