Member-only story
The Sticky Note That Nearly Broke Me
The memories are like mist, and maybe I’m seeing ghosts
I’ve written much about my dearly departed husband’s penchant for keeping things — not throwing anything away, that is. But color me surprised to find a yellow sticky note with directions to my house.
Bob’s friend, Randy, offered to help me clean out the room over the garage. I reminded him today that he was responsible for “this mess” when he got Bob involved in rummaging through estate sales for treasures to sell online.
To be honest, some of the stuff is pretty interesting. For instance, I read a handwritten letter from an unknown fellow to a girl, dated 1940 — he affectionately chastised her for not writing him. I felt a bit like a voyeur. But more than that, I coveted his gorgeous penmanship.
Then I found Bob’s note — blue ink on a three-by-three-inch square of yellow paper. It was stuck to another piece of paper of no significance. My address, two street turns, and my phone number was all it contained — in beautiful printed letters. Randy remarks often about how nice Bob’s handwriting was.
“Oh my goodness,” I uttered. Randy looked over as I held the paper in his direction.
“That’s your…?”
