We've been writing kitchen table love notes for the past seven years and one month. We've written these notes to each other on the backs of: grocery store receipts, colorful square sticky notes, direct deposit slips, pay stubs, junk mail envelopes, old wedding invitations, the backs of empty check books, index cards, waitress pads, jury duty instructions, warehouse inventory spread sheets, salvaged strips of construction paper from little kid school projects, torn edges of wrapping paper, the backs of cheesy cards from relatives, the backs of shopping lists, books to buy lists, movies to see lists, and parts of the world to research lists.
We've been writing these notes and leaving them on the kitchen table for the past seven years and one month. When one of us reads what the other has written, we stuff and scrunch the note into a shoe box. For the first few years we used a floral recipe box which has long been full and overflowing, but we'd let it get dusty on the top shelf of our kitchen near the bread box and booze. And the shoe box was overflowing too, the top was permanently open and over stretched, but we kept pressing new notes in anywhere we saw a little bit of an opening.
Yesterday, one of my neighbors was doing a photo shoot in my kitchen and I thought the floral recipe box would work well for her styling, so I dusted it off and pulled out all of the notes and stashed them on my desk until today. I swear they expanded over night, springing back to life. About an hour ago, for the first time in 7 years and one month, I decided to unfold each note one by one on the kitchen table, and empty the shoe box as well. 7 years and one month of history in this home, in this city, all scrapped together on the table in mostly sloppy passionate scrawl.
We have written these notes through multiple jobs, a name change, the death of my grandmother, and all kinds of transformation.
Sometimes it's best to just let it all out.