chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

fragments…

Nevin Giesbrecht Photography

On the scrap of paper she was using for her latest list, she had written the word Butterfly, though she had no idea when or why or what it might have meant at the time. She looked at the word. Butterfly, she mused. Butter. Fly. But. Butt. Butte. Utter. She couldn’t recall seeing a butterfly worth noting, or talking about Madame Butterfly, or even imagining a future Halloween costume. It had no meaning.

How much of her life would be littered with the debris of lost memories if she stopped to note more words? Each step would compact a fresh drift of words as she moved from room to room. Perhaps there were herds of wildebeest thundering through her past, or flambé desserts, or erotic interludes she had simply failed to write down—events and people and places she could not recall. But without the written reminder, she would never know they were missing.

So this butterfly was a gentle tap on the shoulder to alert her to the presence of the absent. It was the hole in the cheese. The pale skin in place of her wedding band. The look of joy, or disappointment, on the face of a stranger…
– – –
Nevin Giesbrecht Photography ~ used with permission

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