My mother left
small yellow squares
everywhere.
On mirrors.
In drawers.
Places
I couldn’t avoid.
Alarm clocks.
Steering wheels.
Shower tiles.
They said things like
do your chores.
I hated them.
The ambush.
The way they interrupted
my commitment
to not remembering.
I used to joke
I had PTSD
from sticky notes.
That I couldn’t use them
as an adult.
Looking back–
it’s funny.
She was inventive.
Relentless.
Trying to outsmart
a thirteen-year-old
with office supplies.
And then there were
the others.
The napkins
in my lunch bag.
Every day
a small note.
A sentence folded
into a brown paper sack
like a fortune cookie
I didn’t ask for.
Metal lunchboxes
weren’t cool anymore.
Disposable was.
She wrote anyway.
And I found them.
And I threw them away.
Every day.
Now I wish
I knew what they said.
I wish I had saved
even one.
Because I know now
those notes weren’t reminders.
They were proof
someone was thinking of me
when I wasn’t looking.
