I needed a pen I found a gallon bag

I needed a pen. I found a gallon bag

of silica gel packets, saved and sealed.

Her handwriting on the outside—for later—a tag

with no address. The drawer had them piled, healed

against some future damp she must have planned for.

DO NOT EAT on every one in red.

Dozens of them. The fluorescent overhead

made everything look like evidence. I scanned

the drawer for context. Found a rubber band,

a birthday candle, half a book of stamps.

She was asleep ten feet away. My hand

put the bag back. I stood under the lamp

and turned the phrase over: for later. Like she'd marked

a date. Like later was a place with room.

I found no pen. I closed the drawer. The dark

in the kitchen stayed. She didn't wake. The hum

of the refrigerator held.