The last page of her cookbook.
My mother wrote in the margins of everything. Shopping lists, phone numbers, the backs of receipts. I used to find it untidy.
Stories about the people, places and moments that stay with us.
My mother wrote in the margins of everything. Shopping lists, phone numbers, the backs of receipts. I used to find it untidy.
I was fifty-eight on my first day of swimming lessons. The other adults arrived with matching goggles and caps. Mine were borrowed from my grandson and had a small shark on the side.
My oldest friend and I ran out of things to talk about sometime in February. We had been calling every Tuesday since she moved. Eventually we were reporting what we had eaten for lunch.
The house sold quickly. The garden took longer to leave. I had planted a small pear tree with my father when I was twelve, and every September he called to tell me it had produced exactly four pears.
For most of winter, the same man sat across from me on the early bus. He carried a lunch box wrapped in a tea towel. We nodded, then looked out of our separate windows.
After the shop closed, I kept waking up at five. For twenty-three years I had unlocked its door at six. My body had not received the news.
I took the wrong exit on the way home from work and found the little lake I used to visit after school. I had not been there in nineteen years. The parking meter was new. The ducks seemed much the same.
The first time I went into the diner, I ordered coffee because it was the only word I was certain I could pronounce. The woman behind the counter poured it without asking a second question.
My brother left a green sweater at my apartment eight years ago. He asks for it every Christmas. I say I will post it. Neither of us follows through.
Every Sunday, my father ate the first pancake. It was usually pale on one side and burned on the other. He claimed to prefer it.
My friend sends a postcard from every place she visits. She rarely writes about the place. The last one showed a mountain. On the back she had written that she had eaten an excellent sandwich and hoped my knee was improving.
My grandfather waved until the car turned the corner. Even in the rain. Even when we were coming back the next morning.
150–1,200 words. Your own story. Free to submit.