The shopping list

In my coat pocket I found a shopping list in my handwriting. I hadn't written it.

Bread. Coffee. Batteries for the kitchen clock. Everything that was, in fact, missing at home. I kept it and thought no more of it: it had to be mine, from some blurry week.

The second one appeared inside a book I hadn't started yet. Candles. Matches. Blanket. That night the power went out across the whole neighbourhood.

Since then I look for them. They're almost always right before I am: soup when I don't yet know I'll fall ill, plasters the day before I break the glass, flowers on the day I didn't know I would need them.

This morning's list was stuck to the fridge, held by the magnet we lost years ago.

It only says: "Don't buy anything. Come."