At the end of the journey every man thinks his youth was Arcadia.



(WIP)

You were someone, you thought, standing atop the mountain of trash we'd pulled from the garage--the word that came out strangely from your mouth because of your New Mexican accent--Queen of the Hoarders. Yes. We had hoarded things over the years--odds and ends from our travels. When we first got married we decided instead of a traditional honeymoon we'd travel to my motherland--there we begun to pick up knick-knacks (That's what they were, right?) and things of random importance. We attached false value to these items. We held them close. They were our sheet music.

I was someone, I thought, watching you--such a lucky man to have you--the son of an Air Force Marshall and a school teacher with a knack for languages. I had my raven-haired beauty.

Little did we know that these things were changing us. They were our metamorphosis. We were wrapped in our cocoon--love sparked and nurtured--until we bloomed into what became known as "that crazy couple with the giant spoon collection" or "the junk collectors."

((To be continued.))