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Small Things, by Serai
My ‘pitara’ of memories is not in the shape of a box. Mine is a shape-shifting cumulous cloud made of wispy scents and fleeting echos. I have a tapestry that changes weaves at whim, a sum of its parts, but never a whole- a pocketful of carmine “lucky beans” and cherry toes peaking from beneath polyester curtains. Of the disappointment of never making a long jump stick, and the sticky joy of jade green disks that melted into a minty mess in the mouth- I still look for them now.