I DIDN’T THANK you for the pill planner. You left it for me there on the edge of the bureau, between the Sisyphus paperweight and the small porcelain vase of fresh-cut camellias, in just the place I was sure to find it. In earlier years I might have come upon a Saint Christopher pendant pillowed in cotton, or a secondhand batting glove redolent of the mink oil used to soften it up, or a cautionary Dear Abby talent is not enough; the edge of the bureau having served from the very beginning as a kind of mail-drop for items you thought I might find interesting and/or useful, left without comment while I was off learning how to swim the butterfly, field pop flies or, later, operate a shampoo-bottle bong in the Spring Street graveyard.
I didn’t say anything about the pill planner, did not expressly thank
