It was a shoebox. An old one, from a store that went out of business years ago. It was held together with two thick rubber bands.
She brought it back to the table and set it down in front of me. Then she sat down across from
me and folded her hands.
“Open it,” she said.
I took off the rubber bands. I lifted the lid.
It was full of paper. Hundreds of little pieces of paper. Scraps. Notes. Some on the back of receipts. Some on the back of her own cream-colored stationery. Some on sticky notes. They were all stacked neatly, in order, with the oldest at the bottom.
I picked up the one on top.
Mrs. W — Fixed the sticky drawer. Soap on the runners. Should slide now. — C.
I picked up the next one.
Mrs. W — Your hydrangeas look thirsty. I watered them. Hope that’s okay. — C.
The next one.
Mrs. W — Found a birthday card from your husband in the back of the desk drawer when I was
dusting. I didn’t read it. I put it on your nightstand. — C.
I looked up at her. She was watching me.
“These are my notes,” I said.
