I'm a small spiral notebook kept on the kitchen counter.
Full of phone numbers, notes, grocery lists and drawings.
I'm just a spiral notebook you see..
But I was there the day they rushed him to the ER.
In me are notes of what the doctors were saying
and questions to ask them...
Collections of phone numbers from people who visited
and lists of thing to do.
Written on my pages are now phone numbers for
the lung doctor, the heart doctor,
The cancer doctor and cancer center.
I hold notes of conversations with the Social Security Office,
the insurance agent and the funeral home.
My owner doesn't NEED these things anymore.
She doesn't WANT them anymore.
But she can't bring herself to throw me out.
So I sit here on the counter. I have no blank pages left.
A grim ghost that mocks her everyday life.
Written documentation of a life she never wanted to lose,
and of a life she never wanted to have.
There's a new spiral beside me now,
Serene and faded purple; its blank pages are waiting
to have entered the quotidian bits of information needed to carry forward.
Here we sit side by side on the counter,
one missing pages and cluttered with writing and drawings,
the other sparkling and pristine. Side by side, we are waiting.
I'm just a spiral notebook you see....