Ode to Self: The Unreliable Narrator
Here's to a year of disjointed memories. I can hardly contain myself — moments slip out of my mind as easily as they enter it, which makes writing in retrospect more of an exercise in embellishment and storytelling than a record of truth and certainty. I am my most unreliable narrator. What happened in 2017? You can trust me to forget about it.
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Sweet Potential
Not aware of the more complex processes that go into nature’s production of honey, four- or five-year-old me assumed that bees simply dug around the whorled center of flowers until they found hidden wells of nectar, which were somehow promptly deposited into the bear-shaped bottle in our family’s kitchen cupboard.
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