Knuckle Sandwich

Although I do use the side of my stainless steel Kenmore behemoth to post saved prayer cards of dead relatives, the ubiquitous grocery lists, scraps of napkins with the names of decent wines I've tasted scribbled down, an invitation to my thirty-fifth high school reunion, a Howard Zinn bumper sticker, and a few pictures of a younger me, thirty pounds lighter and more apt to be smiling, the addition to my fridge that says it all is actually the two knuckle imprints, barely visible, punched into the front of the freezer door by my eighteen-year-old son shortly after his step-father purchased the fridge for us two years ago. Sometimes, a good, permanent indentation or two can offer the world a more vivid narrative about the entanglements of life better than any Times New Roman, twelve point font can ever do.


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