(I didn't write any notes for this piece of media. Foolish me!)



Now in the cool of evening I catch a hint of the forest, of that taking of sudden breath that pines demand; it’s on my skin, a light oil, a sweat born of some forgotten leaning into fire.

I stand at the counter slicing cheese, salami, rye bread, spreading mayonnaise, tamping down the lettuce, wrapping the sandwiches carefully in waxed paper for tomorrow’s slunch the exact way my grandmother taught me years before, humming one of my grandfather’s tunes, one he groans out when he sings himself to sleep, tapping his foot, swinging from side to side as though he were burning.

Lightning bolt
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