Thursday, March 10, 2011

A vignette: Paper Time Capsules

The smell of popcorn drifts from one.  The  taste  of  soft  pretzel  spills  from another. Another one sounds like Sonny Rollins, playing his saxaphone to the beat.
They are like little paper time capsules, those tickets. They each tell a story of the places I’ve been, of the things I’ve seen.
They peek from the envelope, their corners torn and frayed. They’ve seen a lot, those tickets. I finger them gingerly, carefully. I am afraid of breaking them, destroying them, losing their stories.

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