sometimes i think of our dearly loved ones who have passed away, or those who will perhaps pass before us, or those who have simply parted ways with us, and it hurts to feel all that love come flooding back then get stripped away in the lighting flash span of recollection, but in those moments I also know, as true as anything, that this string of people remembered is my life in its purest and irreducible form.

a kitchen is stamped with an intuition and order passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter (and occasionally sons) so that without having been there before you could see the used newspaper rubber bands hung on a doorknob, the mugs stacked in the cabinet beside the sink, the orchid in the window, the can opener always in some miscellaneous drawer, and everything about it would feel right to you