Magnets and Reminders

The fridge is a graveyard of things I meant to do.

A dry-cleaning receipt from three years ago

is held up by a plastic magnet shaped like a shoe,

reminding me of a suit I no longer know.

The yellowed edge of the Scotch tape has curled,

its stickiness traded for a brittle, dusty film.

It’s a tiny flag from a previous world,

falling slowly out of the kitchen’s realm.

I should peel it off before the movers arrive,

but I’m afraid of what the clean spot will say.

It’s proof that some parts of us survive

simply because we forgot to throw them away.