What do you carry when you let go?

I’ve been folding clothes for the last hour—just the ones that belonged to someone who’s gone. Not the big things, not the heirlooms. The socks, the worn-out sweater, the shirt with the coffee stain I never got around to washing. It’s strange how much weight a single folded sleeve can hold. I keep thinking: what is it we actually release when we say goodbye? Not the memories, not the love. But something quieter—the shape of their absence in the room, the way the air changes when they’re not there. What do you carry after you’ve let go?