And all is now quiet on the southern front.
Like all other great things, so to do fond visits from Northerly Northlanders expire. Now firmly in the cold grasp of their icy climate, the only remnants of our time together are souvenirs, photographs, leftovers from a feast and memories.
I can still hear the children playing and the loud laughter amongst friends and the discussions regarding poop. Mere echoes now.
If I could only hit the rewind button and experience it all over again.
There is a paper decoration of a goofy looking turkey on the table next to me as I type this page. He is a plump fellow with colorful cardboard feathers and a pilgrim hat atop his little, smiling head. Although this is yet another relic of a day gone celebration, he seems to be trying to communicate something. This turkey's beak happens to be pointing directly at a salt shaker situated on the table, in very close proximity. This hardly seems random coincidence.
It's not quite clear to me whether he actually winked, or if I only imagined the wink...but it seems fairly obvious what this paper gobbler is suggesting.
Clever boy.
Today's Jazz Hands will be shaking a lot of salt upon their leftovers.
Day three-hundred and thirty-three complete.
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