Hash browns ala carte never tasted quite so good as they do tonight...
I sit at my kitchen counter and listen to the churning of the washing machine and to the whirling of the dishwasher, complete with wine glasses tinkling inside as reminders of bottles corked, glasses raised, stores, friends, and conversations of anger and conversations of laughter...
It seems as if every item I own now gazes down at me from their posted positions and fails sadly at every attempt to bellow out “Remember when you chose me from the rest?!” or “You almost passed right by me, remember?” or even “I can’t believe you forgot how excited you were when you first got me!”
To me, the things I accumulate are all tombstones of movements gone and moments past.
When was the last time I ventured into the deepest regions of my home and found a bauble from a clear moment and held it over my head and sighed at the rebirth of it?
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