It isn’t hard to understand why the smell of Old Spice or homemade drunken tomatoes make my guts somersault.
It isn’t a mystery as to why being out in grandpa’s workshop can conjure a salty leak from my eyes.
It isn’t difficult to imagine a young woman standing in an emptied room, rubbing an old, thin handkerchief between her fingers.
One may be puzzled, however, at a girl crumpling to her knees after finding three rectangular work pencils, sharpened by a pocketknife, lines triangulated to a perfect, prismed tool.
It might be easy to miss the relevance of a deck of cards, of food for roses, of a cassette tape tucked away of his grandkids’ tiny, squeaking voices.
In all the apparent things, all of the solid and tangible touchables, we float through.
The ones that give us the worst pangs are stuck in all the quiet, sleepy, places and sneak into us just when we think we’ve gotten our hearts smoothed over. The worst ones rewreck us.