MargenIt took me four years to dare give away her clothes. I took them out of the wardrobe on one of those mornings when the house is too tidy, and folded them into boxes without looking much.
In the pocket of the grey coat I found a shopping list in her handwriting: bread, light bulbs, something for the cough.
I stood a long while with that piece of paper in my hand. It wasn't a letter, or a photograph, or any of the things a person keeps on purpose. It was just an ordinary Tuesday she expected to live. A small plan for a day she took for granted.
I put the list back in the pocket, hung the coat in the wardrobe again, and closed the boxes with everything else. I still buy the bread she liked. Sometimes, going down the light-bulb aisle, I remember there is one left to change.