Remember when Ellie tried to make orange sherbet, and somehow turned the kitchen into a citrus crime scene? I still find lemon zest in the most unexpected places, like the back of my closet.
Every misplaced door holds a story, and behind it, an echo of laughter long forgotten.
The other day, I stumbled upon a photo of Uncle Jim, in the middle of some absurd dance, with a cat perched atop his head.
There’s a path behind the old mill, not far from where the creek bends. If you listen closely, you can hear whispers of the past, or maybe just the wind pretending to remember.
Some days are like this—collages of misplaced memories, casual and carefree. Like a dream you can't quite grasp, but wish to chase.