Tonight, I've been writing up letters alone in my little cold house. I had this big idea, and then, all the sudden, I kept thinking of pumpkin pie: all the ones I've ever made, and the ones I thought I had wanted to make in the future. The ones I was looking forward to making. I watched this show with my parents at home once about how pumpkin is the most desirable scent--they did some study. But I'll tell you the truth: it's not pumpkin. Talk about smells: after two washings, the sleeve of this my new nice shirt still smells like catfish from this weekend. I remember how confident I used to feel when I was a little girl fishing for catfish with my dad: unhooking them, touching their sides. How special and good and unbroken, enthusiastically in my element. I really want to remember how I feel right now this minute, too, though it's the opposite of all that. I really want to grind it in.
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