As we look forward to our move, we purge corners of the house that we have forgotten about. The two of us only have the 850 some odd square feet, but it is loaded with cabinets and corners and cubbies which are rarely thumbed through. 

I dread what’s above me, in the attic. We built the garage out back to hold other stuff. 

This weekend we tore apart the shelf of wines, liquors and beers. Mostly to dust off bottles. Other bottles we’re afraid to open, we’ve always been afraid to open. Bottles we had stood in line for, or showed up on a certain day and took home before the limited quantities had been tapped. Bottles that we promised we were saving for a special occassion. 

This is to say that we never give ourselves enough reasons to celebrate. 

The enthusiasm wanes rather quickly. You could swim in all the beer this town has to offer, then you start to drown a bit. Some of it stands to be rather good, the rest could be bothered with. At some point, the metabolism wanes and the hangovers start earlier than usual and you find yourself getting into tea more often than not. 

Yet, these bottles still hold something of a mystery. Like Schrodinger and his damn cat. Dust on the outside, but what is inside? Anything good anymore? Anything worth drinking? Like bottles of mysterious champagne corked by monks of a different century that go for millions at auction – who would dare open them and find out what is inside? 

At the very least, I know some folks who would love to reuse the bottles. 

Writing would be great if it weren’t the only thing I knew how to do.

I publish as much as I can, you’ll just have to wait for the rest.

 

Writing would be great if it weren’t the only thing I knew how to do.

I publish as much as I can, you’ll just have to wait for the rest.

 

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