We drink coffee made on antiqued pots stained with the luncheons and dinner sauces of whatever previous owner goodwilled them to the thrifty stores we found and purchased them in for pennies on the Washington and gave them another life, another chance at serving a purpose, one to warm the hands, lips, and highway throat bellies of hers, mine and his. A revival of the black kettle variety.
So is the metaphor of our lives, friends. We are young, we are unencumbered by the trapdoor fixtures of debt and compromise. Fresh as the fruit we fill our stomachs with, green as the smoke this Colorado countryside has colored legal, flirting danger safe as the quarter inch of metal between the dry winter heat of a propane powered gift and all of zero degrees Dr. Fahrenheit outside do we exist. Money is heavy rich in bank accounts and then money is $27 thin one day as we choose between chance and lottery what our today will mean for our tomorrow. Fortune is in our favor, but fate is nothing without plans and action; those three sisters spinning