I Couldn't Read the Last Line

I moved the bookcase to repaint

and there it was—the corkboard

I'd forgotten the way you forget a tooth

until something reminds you.

Three things still pinned to it.

A phone number on a torn strip, no name.

A photograph, face-down.

I didn't flip it.

And a grocery list.

Blue pen. Someone else's hand.

Milk. Bread. Two more items

in the same clean ink.

Then a fifth line

where the pen went thin

and didn't come back.

Just a groove in the paper

where a word had started.

I don't remember whose handwriting that is.

I think I do.

I stood there long enough

that the paint dried on the roller.

The phone number is for an exchange

that might not exist anymore.

I didn't call it.

I repainted the wall.

The corkboard is leaning against the baseboard

with all three things still on it.

I couldn't read the last line.

I keep trying.