…on things unsaid.

Sitting on that funny chair in your tiny kitchen that had the stairs on it. The way your fresh butter tarts, right out of the oven, just melted on my tongue. Rows and rows of dusty canning in the porch. The smell of picking a fresh tomato. That little dish of stale hard candies that I ate from non-stop, even though they stuck to my teeth and weren’t even particularly good. Tea, every day at 4pm, and always on the good china.