When John and I drove to LAX we were pressed for time. Being in the carpool lane certainly allowed us to go faster than the daily commuters but catching a morning flight after returning the rental car kept us on task. The shuttle bus dropped us off along with a pack of airport restaurant servers just starting their day. We were unable to print boarding passes at the retreat site where we had been all week but the first security person said the email in our phones would work fine. We hiked up the escalators and had our palms wiped to identify malevolence and proceeded to the bored but no nonsense officer requiring ID. 

"You need a paper boarding pass," she decreed with as much of an apology as an eighteen wheeler leaning into someone else's lane. I began to counter with the assurance given downstairs that phones are enough but the words trailed off like jet smoke. 

We traipsed back down the escalator and plugged a credit card into a kiosk. Back upstairs we had our palms checked again just in case we had snuck in a terrorist interaction in the last five minutes. The paper allowed us the privilege of continuing down the terminal and onto the plane. 

With a whooosh we found our seats and stuffed our bags in the overhead compartment. 

When we arrived home and began the task of unpacking I came across the Very Important Document. Now it was trash. 

Last month I had a comment perched and ready to deliver to John. It involved highlighting a mistake he had made and I kept it front and center until I saw him. Holding on to it made less room for appreciation to settle in. 

Then life happened and we had to join forces to prepare the cupboards and coop for yet another pending snowstorm. After the tarp was tied in place and the groceries were unpacked I remembered my complaint. 

It felt like an expired boarding pass. Why had I hung on to it? The only place it would take me was dark and lonely. 

I let go of the need to mention what no longer had any meaning.