By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025

Found them in the desk drawer
where he kept the good pens,
stacked like pressed flowers—
each one a season, a version of us
he remembered.

Oregon Coast, 1987:
Kate – age 5
Floaties, crayons, bedtime bear
Rain jackets (check forecast)
Pack her world with precision

Yellowstone, 1993:
Chapter books for Kate
Extra film
Bear spray!!!
Her stuffed rabbit (DO NOT FORGET)

He wrote notes in the margins—
“talk to her about stars”
tucked between bug spray and maps,
as if joy could be folded
into a duffel bag.

Disney, 1999:
Surprise Kate with breakfast w/ characters?
Comfortable shoes (learned my lesson)
Let her choose the music

He didn’t write down
how he cried a little
when she sang along.

Grand Canyon, 2004:
Katie’s graduation present
Her favorite snacks for hike
Sunscreen (she’ll roll her eyes but take it)
Remember to tell her

The lists grew shorter
toward the end.
His handwriting slower.
More question marks.

Alaska, 2019:
Warm clothes
Medicine
Camera (if I remember how)
Kate?

Someday Trip, undated:
Scotland maybe
Or that place Katie studied
The one with the—
I should ask her

After the funeral,
I read them aloud
to no one,
to everyone.
To the lake, to the stars,
to the child I once was.

Now I make my own lists,
fold them into neat squares.
Last week I wrote “tide charts”
before catching myself.

Scotland, 2025:
Dad’s camera
Dramamine (just in case)
All the things we should have said

And in the margins,
I finally see it—
the love that never needed
poetry.
Just lists.
Just this.

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