You're still holding the ticket

My break. My one vice. My little treat after a long day. Each one starts with the word you save for your people, your home, your favorite song. And you're still putting it in front of something you're walking away from. That tiny word is holding a spot open.

A possessive works like a coat check ticket. While it's in your pocket, something hangs in the back with your number on it. Waiting. Whatever you still hold a ticket for, part of you plans to collect. You didn't let it go. You checked it.

Try the plain names. Not my break. Ten minutes of standing around. Not my little treat. Nicotine, arriving on a timer. Flat, right? The cigarette snuck onto a list beside your people and your home, and it never earned the spot. A thing with a dull name is hard to long for.

When the old phrase pops up today, swap my for the and listen to it go flat. That's the sound of a ticket tearing. The real list is shorter and far better, and God's handing it back piece by piece. Your mornings. Your money. Your people, up close. Tear up the ticket. Nothing back there belongs to you.