Morphine Ghost

I will say something one day, and then discover it written on a piece of paper and taped on the bathroom mirror or on the refrigerator. Why?

They're never important things. Not secrets. Just ordinary sentences I mutter to myself. "I should buy more coffee." "It's colder than yesterday." "I can't find my keys." Hours later, there they are in Mother's handwriting, taped somewhere I have to look. Sometimes she underlines a word. Sometimes she circles one. Once she added a question mark after coffee like I'd said something profound. When I ask her about the notes, she blinks at me and says, "You wrote them." I know I didn't. I don't even own that kind of tape. I'm not allowed tape.

Yesterday I tried an experiment. I locked myself in the garage and whispered a sentence I'd never spoken before: "The birds owe me an apology." I laughed because it was ridiculous. I felt clever for once. This morning the note was waiting on the bathroom mirror. Same sentence. Same handwriting. But underneath it, in smaller letters, someone had added: They already apologized. You weren't listening.