More Than Milk and Bread

I found an old shopping list today,

Crumpled in the corner of a drawer—

The ink was smudged, the paper torn,

Yet it whispered of days long gone before.

Milk. Eggs. Bread.

Simple things, and yet

They held the echo of a morning rush,

Of cereal bowls not washed yet,

Of toast crumbs scattered and coffee hush.

I paused, the list between my hands,

As if it were some sacred script—

A catalog of ordinary wants,

Where memory and meaning cryptically slipped.

Bananas. Soap. Olive oil.

My mother’s handwriting, slanted right—

Each curl and curve a quiet coil

Of love wrapped up in daily plight.

She wrote these lists on Sunday nights,

With radio humming low and soft,

And I would sit beside her legs

While stars blinked gently up aloft.

She’d ask me what I wanted too—

Though we never had much more than need

A candy bar? A comic book?

A fleeting wish, a child’s greed.

But I learned early, wishes cost.

Dreams were heavy for carts to hold.

So I began to write my own lists,

And learned to barter joy for gold.

Toothpaste. Cereal. Chicken thighs.

Years later, in my college days,

I scribbled lists with sleepy eyes,

Between the deadlines and café haze.

Shopping became a quiet rite—

A tether to the life I led,

While trying to build something more

Than ramen nights and crusty bread.

Each item was a promise made

To keep myself alive, intact.

A loaf of bread. A bag of rice.

Hope disguised in every act.

Lemons. Wine. Candles. Brie.

The list evolved as love moved in—

Two names inked on one paper slip,

His laughter warm against my skin.

We filled our cart with plans and dreams—

Parties, dates, and meals for two—

Fresh flowers just because it’s spring,

Dessert we’d share beneath the moon.

But even love can turn to rot,

Like fruit forgotten on the shelf—

And when he left, the lists grew short,

As if I’d pared down to myself.

Tissues. Tea. Frozen meals.

Lonely lists in lonely hands—

Shopping felt like grief in motion,

Rows and rows of hollow plans.

Then came the storm, the silent years—

The months where fear lined every aisle—

Where masks replaced familiar smiles

And time stood still for quite a while.

Flour. Yeast. Toilet rolls.

The lists grew strange and desperate then,

As if we could, through canned control,

Reclaim the world we’d known again.

And yet, we learned to knead and wait,

To grow from scarcity and strain,

To value quiet, home-cooked plates,

To let small rituals ease the pain.

Apples. Honey. Baby wipes.

One day the list began to bloom—

A new hand scrawled beside my own,

A name not yet but coming soon.

We bought soft blankets, onesies white,

Cradled futures in gentle care,

And every item we brought home

Felt like a whispered, hopeful prayer.

Bandaids. Toys. Carrot sticks.

Now shopping carts are filled with noise—

With questions asked a dozen times,

With little hands and little joys.

I write my lists with half a mind,

While wrangling socks and chasing sleep,

Yet every scribble, every line

Is rooted in a love so deep.

Diapers. Pasta. Crayons. Juice.

I’ve come to see what lists reveal—

They map the shifts of who we are,

The days we lose, the ways we heal.

Not every line leads to a shelf—

Some trace back to those we’ve lost,

To laughter that now fills the past,

To love that came at every cost.

Paper towels. Chocolate. Time.

(If only that could be in stock.)

I’d add some peace, a glass of wine,

A gentle breeze, a sunset walk.

I never thought that lists could be

A diary of all I’ve known—

Of how I’ve grown, of who I’ve been,

Of empty rooms and hearts now grown.

So now I keep them, every one—

The old receipts, the wrinkled sheets—

My life in ink, in butter smudged,

In apples bruised and checkout beeps.

And when I’m gone, perhaps someday

A child of mine will find them too—

And know that love was in each line,

Each scribbled word, each chosen hue.

Eggs. Bread. Milk.

It’s more than just a list, you see—

It’s a quiet record of a life,

A testament to memory.