Notes scribbled on yellow post-its. If he dies tomorrow, he knows those will be the most valuable traces he has left of his life on this earth. Simple, honest, joyous expressions of love, jotted on transient pieces of paper. He usually used a black pen, but sometimes it was blue. His handwriting was bold, with long curves and playful strokes for all his capital letters, their lower-cased counterparts stitched together in eager cursive. Sometimes it was one word, his lover’s name with an exclamation point, as if through the post-it his lover could experience how his heart had called out for him at that moment. Sometimes it was a small phrase, or even just a doodle. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t what was on those post-its that mattered.
It was where and when they were found that made all the difference. In the beginning, he would hide them all over his lover’s apartment, in places he knew he would see them, but only eventually, after they’d parted for the week on Monday. Sometimes he would leave one under a pillow, to say goodnight. Sometimes in a shoe, to wish him a beautiful day. Notes scribbled on yellow post-its turned into a way of managing long-distance affection and yearning.
But alas, the years went by, and one day they parted ways for good. It isn’t sad. Their friendship, the most important part of their relationship, remained. But now and again a folder would come loose, or the contents of a drawer would shift a certain way, and one of those yellow post-its would suddenly surface, like a relic from another age. He would pick up it up, fold it neatly and file it with all the photos and all the cards, and the hundreds of yellow post-it notes in his wardrobe.
