On the preciousness & potency of those pink hats…
Though I’d already been back once, I could feel the sea tugging at me, calling me home. And then the call came. The one that spoke of loss. Of exodus.
And so, I returned. To the empty house of my childhood friend. Filled with mourners.
The butcher block island in the center of Mrs. O’s kitchen was filled too–with aluminum pans of pasta, which I ignored, because for me it was always ice cream. Cartons greedily opened after school; not one, but two, and sometimes three; especially before or after General Hospital, or in the wee hours of the morning, after a night of drinking. Three of us. Three spoons. Laughter.
“You girls smell like a brewery!” Mrs. O. once said.
“Do you still have the fabric shop?” I asked, attempting to change the subject, exposing my drunkenness.
…Who were we…
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