No
perfect sheet of snow on our drive this morning. By the time I had got up, the
milkman had already trudged his way up to our door, and back.
I
love a blank page. But what is perfection? A fresh sheet, waiting, ready to
receive a million possible stories? Or the page on which a story has already
been written down, one in a million, started out at least?
The
memory of the milkman’s boots.
I
can find opening the door to the cold air and stooping down to lift up the
crate—six bottles, one with snow crystals on its neck—deeply satisfying AND
savour the exquisite disappointment of spoiled snow, right? Or am I wanting to
have my breakfast cereal, and keep it?
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