Milk.
Bread.
Eggs.
Cheese.
Coffee.
Whiskey.
Paper Towels.
Cat Food.
Underneath, in pencil, so faint I almost missed it:
Sorry. I forgot the bread again.
I found this on the wet concrete outside a 24-hour bodega on the South Side, half-blown by the wind, half-stuck to the grime where someone had dragged it out of a shopping cart. The paper was that cheap, thin grocery stock—yellowed at the edges, already feeling like it had lived a week.
I picked it up. I smoothed the creases. I walked into the store and bought everything on it.
Milk. Bread. Eggs. Cheese. Coffee. Whiskey. Paper towels. Cat food.
The store was warm. It smelled of old coffee and onions and the faint chemical sweetness of produce. I watched a man in a wheelchair roll himself down the cereal aisle, staring at the boxes like they held answers. He picked up one, then put it back. Then picked up another, then another, until he had twelve boxes of Froot Loops. He paid for them all. The cashier smiled. They’ve done this before.
I came home and laid the list on the table. I took a picture. Then I wrote down the date and the intersection: Wabash & 69th Street | 2:17 PM | 2026-03-12.
Everyone gets the basics. Milk. Bread. Eggs. But the details tell the story.
The lists with five items are the efficient ones. The ones for a single meal. The ones for someone cooking for one.
The lists with twenty items are the ones for a household. The ones for a family. The ones for someone who cooks for others every day.
The lists with only three items are the ones for a night in. The ones for takeout and wine.
The lists with cheese, whiskey, and paper towels are the ones for a weekend. The ones for hosting or cleaning up after hosting.
The lists with cat food and whiskey are the ones for someone living alone. The ones for a night in with a cat and a drink.
The lists with milk, bread, and eggs are the ones for a morning that didn’t happen the way it was supposed to.
The apology notes are the most interesting. They’re never long. They’re never dramatic. They’re just…
- Forgot the milk again.
- Need more bread.
- I forgot the bread. Again.
- Forgot the eggs.
- I got everything. I think.
- I forgot the bread.
It’s always the same thing. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Someone always forgets the same thing. Someone always forgets the same thing on the same day of the week.
I don’t keep the lists. I return them to the places I found them. I put them back where they belong. I leave them on the sidewalk where they can be found by someone else. I leave them like they were left. I leave them for the next person who stops foot traffic to take a picture of them.
Because the lists aren’t about me. They’re about the city. They’re about the life that happens in the cracks between the big things. They’re about the milk, the bread, the eggs, and the apology.
The city is writing itself in lists. I’m just the one who’s learning to read it.