01.15.2014

365 - 01-15-2014

It’s 6:30 a.m. The sanitation truck lumbers up the next street. I can see it through the houses. Charlie’s wrapped in a warm robe, slippered feet protected from January freezer burn, as he carts our trash to the curb. It’s not a particularly romantic thing, but I’m grateful nevertheless. Sometimes love appears in a robe and slippers, trashbag in hand.

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