And a fine day it ’tis!
I’m cutting potatoes for planting. I have a few that are about to go to rot, and I want to save the sprouts. I would have liked to wait until the 3rd Qtr Moon; but, either I throw these away, or I do something with them. I turn to say something to my granddaughter and my hand brushes across the potato chunks, scattering them every which way.
Across the counter.
On the floor.
Oh, Glory Be.
My granddaughter says, “Ama, some of the pieces flew under the island.” She points to the kitchen cart that I have shoved against the wall because I keep smacking into the corners with my hips. Do. Not. Go. There.
On hands and knees, side of her face pressed against the floor so she can reach further, she starts fishing under the cart. I screech, “Do…
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