Tears are nothing more than memories that sneak out of your eyes & roll down your cheeks. I’d love to give proper credit to this little Pinterest gem, but I have no idea who penned it – no pin pun intended. While I’d rather not get into how devastating loss cripples some people (we’ll talk about that next week), I do want to chat about our/my tendency to wax poetic, about all the feelings, during the holidays. I even have a trick or two up my sleeve. It could help. See, I caught some of those falling memories in my nicest handkerchief and put them in a fine box to store. But, moths came and chewed holes in them all. When I pulled them out to show my children, we couldn’t read the stories for all the holes.
Memories are petulant children. They’re good at home when no one cares, but full on disasters when you’re in line at Walmart. That is to say, they never function like you want them to when you want them to. Sitting right here at a tiny table, in my tiny kitchen, I can remember a slew of Sundays spent in cutthroat card games with my grandmother. I can smell her chocolate sheet cake & see her poking holes into it so the icing could glide to the bottom. But, I can’t remember what her hands looked like.
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