memory

My Favorite Christmas Memory

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The details are fuzzy as any old memory goes. The story comes like a pop-up book for a toddler: pictures emerge here and there but the lines and paragraphs don't make sense.
I was four, maybe five, and that year I learned that giving is more fun than receiving.

Memories, in the corner of my mind

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I used to remember things. Whole paragraphs I'd tuck into a pot in the back of my mind without needing to write them down. They'd simmer and, when, ready, I'd collect them, full of spices melding flavors.
Now, I have an idea for a post, and by the time I type in the URL, poof! It's gone.
I make a better magician than an historian.
No matter. I plug ahead.
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