Sticky notes clutter the house. Little reminders to myself.
Clean dryer lent trap.
Take out trash.
Remember to feed Netta.
She sneaks on me like a ghost. Frail bones and skin pale as her hair. “Is Thomas still out there slopping the pigs?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her again that he died in the smokehouse in Summer of ’39.
She draws the curtain back, sees only her reflection. It gets dark early now.
I take my pencil from behind my ear, on the last yellow square sheet, write, “Set clocks back.”
I must remember to buy more.
Thanksgiving, all of Grandpa Buck’s sweaters were missing. Even the red and yellow wool turtleneck I’d knitted for him last Christmas. He’d called it hideous, but he wore it every Sunday when I came to visit.
Valentine’s Day, Grandpa Buck only had one pair of boxers. “The washer’s been eating laundry,” the nurse said. “A new one’s coming next week.”
St. Patrick’s Day, Grandpa Buck had gangrene in both feet and needed them amputated. “What’s the point of livin’ if I can’t walk?” he asked.
Memorial Day, Grandpa Buck’s wheelchair was found in the swamp. He’d missed breakfast that morning.
word count: 100
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