Any Way You Slice It


If piece of mind wished to be found it would probably rest itself in the shade of a leafy maple, or wander a busy thoroughfare until someone gave it a lift.  Instead it skips, mischievously, just out of reach beyond anxiety, nostalgia and blistered feet.

Anxiety was waiting impatiently in aisle 17 of the local supermarket.  Beans as brown as the shiny bag that encased them, for $7.99 a pound they promised to be my best friend.  Deceptively smooth and nutty aromas inhabited the kitchen as the hot water caressed the grounds and flowed easily into the waiting carafe.

The first cup was exquisite.  My tongue singed and dead to any other flavor, I was ready for another.  Calm competed for my affection as the brackish liquid took me in its grasp.  Halfway through the eleventh cup my fingernails were sweating and my eyeballs had begun searching frantically for a new place to take up residence.  The clerk who sold me this stuff should be ashamed.

Nostalgia is a more visceral companion than I would have anticipated prior to our first meeting.  More intense and encompassing than mere memories, nostalgia attacks on all fronts.  One particular episode from 3rd Grade grabs my spleen and refuses to let go.

My feet have just begun to experience a raw rubbing sensation.  I can’t wait for them to develop the first signs of small fluid-filled vesicles.






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