Wedged into a pocket, this folded paper scrap

has been flattened to a pink-tinged patch –  

faint echo to the orange plaid cotton shorts

that even back then barely cupped my butt.  

Milk tops the chart. Then bottled water,

crackers, paper towels: staples bought in bulk,

my husband’s jurisdiction – meaning

we must have made several stops, together.

Then why is “Home Depot” scratched out but

not the light bulb we would have found there?

Batteries for him, styling gel for me,

emery boards, wasp spray, glycerin for shine:

What contingencies were we equipping for,                   

why were we running everywhere at once?

And now I see it: Ritter Sport, Almond Joy,

Mars Bars and Neccos for the father

whose ravenous sweet tooth was not what                                  

killed him. In the summer of that last birthday

who could have known there would be

no more road trips to buy for, no place to go but

home? I’ll never wear these shorts again.