Whatever She Needed to Remember

In the shoebox: a birthday card,

one earring, one clothespin,

and a slip of paper gripped

inside the pin's jaw, the ink worn thin

to almost nothing—just the shape

of words, the ghost of what

she needed to remember once

and clipped there, and forgot.

I couldn't read it.

I put it in my pocket.

The earring's partner is somewhere

in a drawer or a drain.

The card says Happy Birthday

in blue ink, the cursive plain

and careful, like whoever wrote it

paused before each letter.

1987. Thirty-seven years

of sitting there, no better,

no worse, just sitting.

I couldn't throw it out.

I couldn't throw the clothespin out

either, with its little mouth

still holding what it was told to hold,

still clamped around a secret

or a list or nothing—

I took it home. I kept it.

It's on my windowsill right now.

The paper's still too faded.

I check it in different light sometimes,

like something will have changed.