All the best memories are just smudges on glass now. The idea, I know, is to make new ones. Sometimes I try. Half-heartedly. Loss seems to be cumulative somehow. Living is what I do for a living and I suppose I'm pretty good at it. Not to brag.
There are concepts that finally make a bit of sense for me. Money. Love. Oh, I don't claim to be any kind of expert. I don't have much interest in one and I seem to obsess over the other. I'm appalled that the two are so intertwined in our culture.
My mother taught me to balance a checkbook.
She was a hopeless romantic. She loved.
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