Archive of Love

Before dawn, baby crying,
he writes on the back of an envelope:
formula, diapers, coffee, coffee, coffee
and below that, his pen hovering,
without thinking: don’t forget this.

Not knowing what “this” means:
her small fist around his finger,
the weight of responsibility sweet
as it is terrifying, how love makes you
permeable, breakable in new ways.

The envelope goes in his pocket,
then the drawer, beginning
what he doesn’t yet know is an archive.

The gallery sprawls across two fridges,
held by magnets shaped like fruit,
like states they’ve never visited:
report cards climbing toward B+,
handprints shrinking in reverse,
that photo from the science fair
where Jennifer’s volcano wouldn’t stop.

Between the orthodontist appointments
and soccer schedules, a drawing:
crayon sun with stick figure family,
“DADDY” written backwards,
the second D facing home.

Years later, cleaning out coat pockets,
he finds it—thirty years, maybe forty—
the paper soft as cloth:
milk, bread, call home.
His handwriting when it still ran quick,
when children needed mittens,
when someone waited for that call.

He smooths it on the kitchen table
where thousands of lists have lived,
adds it to the drawer that holds
the history of small necessities:

soccer cleats, size 3
birthday candles (dinosaur)
medicine for Claudia’s ear

love letters he never knew he was writing.