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.