The items needed from the superstore grocery section were: tomatoes, a jar of mayonnaise, bread, strawberries, celery, onions, lemons, bananas and Greek yogurt.

"Fine. No problem," he responded to his mother's recitation.

"I need the fruit for my smoothies, and I want to make some potato salad. By the way, thanks for picking up a sack last week."

"Give me the list so I don't forget anything."

"Here, take."

The housebound matron handed her son the piece of paper once he walked over to where she was sitting with her arm extended.

"Put an apple pie, too," she dictated as he turned away to leave. "Need a pen?"

"Nope. I have one," he said pointing to his shirt pocket. "Do you have a pencil?"

"Over in the cup."

She wagged her pointy-finger without specifying a particular direction.

As a child, he wondered how blunt the pencil lead sharpness would have to be not to snag or tear a one-ply napkin; instead, the graphite smeared after her delicate cursive scribble was applied to the quilt-like surface. He already knew how absorbent the napkins were when used to dab the kitchen tablecloth following a cereal bowl spill; however, those with chores written disintegrated into a pulpy mush, in most cases based upon the control group. Given the present day context, asking her for a pencil was a subtle reminder.

"Doesn't that mechanism include a pencil?"

No comment.

Decades since, his mother transitioned her itemizations to recycled printouts of email footers explaining how to update correspondence preferences or how to unsubscribe in toto. Occasionally, she would cut three by two inch strips from the salvaged paper so that the scrawled reminders could be tucked between pages of her habit-tracking journal.

After adding the crusty dessert to the list, he slid the note and returned his multifunction writing instrument to his shirt pocket.

"Be certain to fill your gas tank," she commanded while gesturing 'shoo'.

"Text me if you think of anything else you want from the store."