Things I Forgot to Tell You

She kept a list of questions in a notebook she carried in her coat pocket. She added to it while walking. She never asked any of them.

The questions were small. Why did you leave the window open? What did the garden look like before you changed it? Do you remember the tea we drank at your mother's table, and was it the same tea she drank every morning, or did she buy something special because we were coming?

He was dead when she found the list, which is to say she found the list because he was dead. She went through his coat pockets looking for a receipt or a phone number or anything that would prove he had been a person who existed in the world beyond the version she remembered. In the inside pocket, she found her own list. He had been carrying it. She did not know how he got it. She did not know how long he had been carrying it.

She read the questions. None of them were answered. But they had been heard. That was something. That was enough to keep.

On the kitchen counter, a small ceramic vessel sat where he had left it. It was wonky - the glaze had pooled on one side, and the rim was uneven. He had bought it at a market because it was imperfect. He said it looked like it was trying to hold more than it could carry. She had thought that was sentimental. Now she thought it was the truest thing he had ever said.

There was a crack running from the rim to the base. She put water in it anyway. It held. The water found the crack and did not go through. She did not understand this. She did not need to understand it.

She wrote a new question on the list: What did you do with the answers? She put the list back in his coat pocket and hung the coat in the cupboard where she would forget it. That was also a small request. The morning held it.