The thing about experiences that leave you wounded and reeling, even at the slightest imagined whiff of a scent…..the kind of throwback that whips your hair around and snaps at your skirt.
There you stand with a summer ahead and years of life yet to live. Dinners with new little children and weekends with old friends.
And this old greasy mess drops out of your hair, right on the floor in front of you.
There you stand, with the promises of happiness ahead and the holding the dread of leaning over and moving that tethered good for nothing crud aside.
Tells you things you know aren’t true.
Reminds you of events you wear the scars from.
We all live forward and because we can not time travel, the grossness comes with us.
It cant be redesigned into a spare couch or a fashionable scarf.
It is what it is.
It is the fine art of making do.