Each time I travel I discover remnants of you
in my suitcases, the ones you borrowed for Japan.
After crossing state lines and continents
I finally realized that the jingling I heard
was your foreign currency, slipped underneath
the lining of my luggage. I hoard your spare change.
When I found your camera tucked in a pocket
with a roll of spent film, I dropped it off
for a stranger to develop. I kept only the shot
of you with Mt. Fuji, and have always wondered:
who else held your camera, and looked at you
through the lens from so far away?