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⚑ June 21, 1999

Buried Deep, As Memory πŸ‘†

Hand of the first man?

Hand of the first man?

Can you imagine?

It’s Mr. Withers, from shop.

Here’s another. Amazing.

Hold still … while we ponce around you.

Is it from a female? A damaged, reluctant β€œvolunteer” for the tribe?

A sorry example of what will happen if you reach for that extra bit of bison?

Or, an antique Vanna, pointing now and forever and forevermore to the Great Puzzle?

I’d like a grunt, please.

An early selfie.

An early selfie.

Now here, on the other hand, is an eerie example of ritual and superstition in this century above ground.

A cookie ornament.

A cookie ornament.

When in the course of a harrassed Christmas preparation, the kind when you don’t have enough time and money to stop the jingling guilt of that scruffy Santa in your mind …

… well anyway, you grab the baby hand of your second child and lay it on top of magic cookie dough and hold still while I carve around you …

… and then you bake it and paint it and hang it on the tree.

Sufficient?

Not nearly. What were you thinking?

And then the weirdest thing happened several years later.

The inevitable.

The inevitable.

Secondo (pseud.) turns into a strapping youth who just happens to be lounging in the doorway of the middle-school gym one day when bam! Someone closes the door and the tops of two fingers are left on the jamb.

But not to fret: Secondo still had many more feet to sprout. His finger-tips sort of grew back. And later, when the cookie broke, he took its picture.

Memory! The light in the cave. πŸ”