Please Return the Library Books, Allison Whittenberg

Please return. The library books.  They’re on the table. 

And I can’t get those words out of my mind. 

Please return. The library books.  They’re on the table. 

Of all things were. Her last words. They slipped by me. I did not mark them at the time. These were just another in a conga line, motherly directions. I wasn’t even looking at her when she said it. She was by the sink. Her arms elbow deep in dishwater. The late afternoon sun glowed. 

And I didn’t even mumble, Okay. 

Busy with my shoes and putting in my ear buds. Meaningless.  I was distracted.  Distracted thinking of the friends I was going to meet up with. And it sounds. Like

so much.  And it sounded like so much of her other instructions.  Do you have your keys? Call me when it starts getting dark.  Do you have enough money with you? I can give you more. Please return. The library books. They’re on the table. 

Those last words echo. Those words held no wisdom, no poetry, nothing profound, just honesty. Love without ceremony.  Love as a routine, heavy.  The thud of normalcy, the power of habit. Nothing dramatic. As her own body giving up. She kept track of so many other things. A never ending list of tasks of. Tasks and items. Magnetic on the fridge. She kept track of everything yet I found her glasses in the laundry room. And those books. Were still on the kitchen table a week later. Later than late, five hardcovers stacked, yellow sticky note on top.  Renew written in her round script. Systems keep people sane. She loved me. The library books were on gardening and travel.  She always wanted to go places far off but never did and spoke of having a full garden, not just a few hanging plants. 

Maybe it’s devotion, maybe it’s defiance, but I didn’t return the library books.  And, I never will.