My memories are made of brick and cement and glass. My dreams are bathed in the waning sunlight of an autumn day. Long shadows creep over fences and pull at the sidewalk as the sun begins to set. My dreams are apples picked from trees and flat piano notes from songs I never learned how to play.
Good food is meant to be eaten and enjoyed. We cook and we go out for dinner, eating everything and anything that fills us with joy.
When tension that could be cut with a knife was used to make noodles instead. When we still wore clothes.
We all need to eat. Food will always be an important part of our lives. We all have our own stories and memories; our own sweet apples and bitter coffee.
A woman said that love is freedom. That love is falling and flying and falling and catching and getting back up together. That love is not what was before, but what will be tomorrow.