I keep some shirts at the far end of my closet, shirts I’ve owned for decades (since back when they fit). I own some shoes with holes in the toe almost worn through; shoes I’ve kept in the dark corner of my closet floor. If you were to ask me why I’ve kept them, what with the shirt collars an inch too small and the shoes a few steps shy of perforated, I’d say, “Well, maybe someday…” But we know most somedays never come. I own a memory I keep safe at the far corner of my mind; a memory of …something… I’ve kept for a couple of decades (when I could remember). I hold this hope, one I’ve worried thin like a child would his button-eyed, floppy friend, now worn to almost gossamer thinness, And if you ask why I’ve kept them, what with the way most memory fades in each new day’s light and how gossamer hope doesn’t spring eternal I’d say, “Well, maybe someday…” That's because, if most somedays never come, that must mean some do.
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