Apron Strings

Gather ’round, my darling misfits of memory.   Let us drink like we are old–and wise. Let us feel like we are still young–and pliable. The caress of youth is fleeting–we should enjoy it while still able to absorb sensation before it all turns black.  And in that space, let the fabric of fresh experience unravel to reveal a new tapestry. The one of our destiny. And not our unpredictable definitions. Because those often change. And can’t be trusted.   Everything shifts as it ages.   But, I still remember the smell of my Mother’s apron when I hugged her that warm Indiana afternoon.   And, I still sometimes smart from the sting from when those strings snapped unexpectedly.   Scars are receipts of occurrence; tears are the currency of existence. …

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Flapper Dreams and Other Strange Things

  There is nothing worse than finally meeting the woman of your dreams, in your dream, only to wake up and realize that you’ll never see her again.    And just to twist the knife a little bit more, when you do finally wake up, there are messages waiting.   Messages from a girl who has come the closest so far to meeting the imaginary benchmarks set inside the unpredictability of those dreams.   Much of it was washed out and ethereal, as dreams often tend to present themselves.  But some of the specifics stuck inside my head–hard.  And their lingering presence made me ache desperately to return to their simple, uncomplicated joy.   We were browsing at some ridiculously large antique mall.  Obviously on the hunt …

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