It was all the notes you wrote me. That's what did it. And it was your notes that I missed the most, I think. I missed you too of course, there was no question of that. There were just so many notes. They became a big part of my memories of you, at times they even blotted you out. I remember you left notes for me everywhere. My life with you was peppered with small amorous, and sometimes poetic, little messages, all scribbled on pink heart shaped paper.
In my clothes drawers, between the pages of books and amongst stacks of papers, at the bottom of bags, stuck to the side of almost anything, and once even inside my hat. What came out of this I don’t think either of us had expected. You haphazardly force fed me daily dosages of sweet and loving words. At the time I remember wondering whether it was really beneficial for a person to be subjected to such a constant stream of affirmation, love, and support.
And I kept them all. Every single note. I collected them at first, as I came across each one, unsticking them from wherever you had chosen to stick them, and stored in a shoebox. It felt great to possess a box filled with brightly coloured pieces of paper decorated with your words. But the box always felt empty. I realized then that the notes in the box had lost their charm because I hadn't kept them in situ. Part of what made your notes meaningful was where I had found them, how unexpectedly surprised I was, and how I thought it was so clever too. Writing a note for someone is a thoughtful gesture, something you only do because you really care. It is an action, and true love is all about sweet words and action.
So I stopped putting them in the shoebox. I left them where I found them instead. Read and appreciated. But the problem was never the notes, it was the rate at which they were produced. Do you remember how in the beginning I left notes for you too? I could never keep up with you, I had tried, I wanted to be thoughtful too. I even bought a pink heart shaped notepad.
There were so many notes. Way more than hundreds, still more than thousands. Everything I owned was oozing your little messages on pink heart shaped paper. Perhaps it was because of the lack of free space that you decided to start putting notes in my mugs and egg cartons and inside individual socks and cereal boxes. After which the note piles began, one stuck up on top of the other, reaching several inches high. It got hard to keep track of which ones I had already read. I am certain I missed at least a few. I felt badly about that but it was impossible to avoid, there were just too many.
But then someone reminded me of something I apparently had made myself forget. That you only ever wrote me the two notes, and the first had been from a pink heart shaped notepad. I do remember it. I found it in the book I was reading. You left it there, right where I had been last reading. I thought it was such a clever spot to put a note. And it said, “You make me happy.”
I was touched.
The other came not long after the first, from a generic white notepad. You didn't hide this one for me to find, I remember that but I don’t remember what it said, apparently I won’t let myself.