When we finished eating, I did what I always do. I automatically started stacking our plates. I took his, put it on mine and started getting up to carry them to the sink.
Mrs. Whitaker crossed the table and placed her hand on mine.
“Leave them”, she said.
“It does not bother me—”
“Carly. Leave them.” She held my hand on the table. “There’s something I want to show you.”
She got up from her chair. She used her cane. She slowly walked towards the cabinet near the back door, the one where she kept
her emergency list taped inside the door.
She took out a box.
It was a shoebox. An old one, from a store that went bankrupt years ago. It was held in place by two thick elastics.
She brought him back to the table and placed him in front of me. Then she sat across from me and folded her hands.
“Open it”, she said.
I took off the elastics. I lifted the lid.
It was full of paper. Hundreds of small pieces of paper. Scrap metal. Notes. Some on the back of receipts. Some on the back of his own cream-colored stationery. Some on sticky notes. They were all stacked neatly, in order, with the oldest one at the bottom.
I took the one above.
Mrs. W — Fixed sticky drawer. Soap on the runners. Should slide now. — vs.
I took the next one.
Mrs. W — Your hydrangeas look thirsty. I
watered them. I hope it’s okay. — vs.
The following.
Mrs. W—I found a birthday card of your husband in the bottom of the desk drawer while I was dusting. I did not read it. I put it on your nightstand. — vs.
I looked at her. She looked at me.
“These are my notes”, I said.
“Each of them”, she said. “Eight years. Four hundred and twelve Thursdays. I kept them all.”
I started going through them. My own messy writing, over and over again. Running out of dish soap. I found your earring. The tap is leaking. I bought more bulbs. Received under the salt shaker.
