[ WP ] You keep a trinket somewhere on you at all times , for good luck . Explain what it is and the reason for its significance .

I keep it in my pocket for whenever I ’ m feeling lost. Whenever life seems to get me down; whenever things seem to be misaligned in some way. I reach into my pocket and it ’ s there. I could describe it in near perfect detail just from the memory of how it feels within my fingers. From the memory of how it got there in the first place. Nobody ever sees it except for me. Frankly, it would raise too many questions. And I just don ’ t have the patience for that anymore. 
 
 You see, everyone needs a token. Something to remember where they ’ ve come from, where they ’ ve been. Lots of people take photographs. They post them on the Internet for everyone to see, to brag and say “ Yea, I was there, and look at these people with me. Someone thought I mattered enough to go somewhere together ”. Others take it a step further and ink those memories on their bodies, so you become a walking canvas that tells the story of your life. At any moment, you can roll up a sleeve and show off a tribute to your dead grandpa, or maybe your child ’ s birthdate. Maybe you were really stupid and now your ex-wife ’ s name is brandished across your ass. But hey, that broad was a part of your life at one point too, right? No point in trying to erase her, is there? Ideally, I suppose nobody would really want to document their mistakes. 
 
 There are those of us who refuse to live in denial, though. We don ’ t care to live behind the perfect little versions of us that so many have created and proudly presented to their friends and family. Sure, for them it ’ s comfortable, it ’ s easy, it ’ s acceptable, and I don ’ t blame them. But it ’ s not for me. That ’ s why I have my token in my pocket. You see, I once thought myself a fantastic cook. I would spend hours flipping through my mother ’ s old cookbooks, fantasizing over the pages of home-baked lasagna and scratch-made meatloaf and imagining that my husband would come home and I would be wearing my little apron and checkered oven mitts and greet him with a fresh oven-roasted turkey and a big, stupid, red lipstick grin on my face. Classic. I continued to maintain this image on the Internet as I spent a few extra minutes each day making sure that I had all my fresh bruises covered; a dab of extra makeup here or there would surely conceal the hours I spent swollen-eyed and sobbing as he shoved me against the wall, drunk with anger and some kind of cheap whiskey. Nobody would ever have to know. But like I said… some of us refuse to live in denial. And nobody would ever have to know. So I continued to read my recipes. 
 
 Now that life is far away for me. I don ’ t live like that anymore. I simply had to make a new life for myself after I acquired my little token in my pocket. But it reminds me of that past life. It reminds me of the last night when my husband came home, and he was drunk, and he wrapped his hands around my neck and pressed his thumbs into my throat. It reminds me of the scent of fresh-cut basil and marinara sauce and the hiss of steaming hot water boiling over and hitting the stovetop in menacing drips. It reminds me of the weight of my favorite chopping knife in my hand, the one I especially like to mince garlic with. And it reminds me of how I won ’ t ever have to feel like that again. Because now his thumb is in my pocket, and if it ’ s there then I know it can never hurt me. But nobody ever has to know. 

