The Mixing Bowl

People don't die. They live on in the minutiae. Moments that arise whilst involved in the most mundane tasks.
So it is with my Aunt Jo, a slip of a woman who smelled of lavender soap and girded me with abiding adoration for my inconstant self. She died alone on the floor after a fall that nobody witnessed.
I inherited her turquoise mixing bowl. She loved to bake. I think of her exacting ways. How she'd level off the flour in a measuring cup perfectly with a flat knife. The way she'd lick the bowl clean with a spatula, but not before giving me a taste.  
I'm a lazy baker: I estimate. I stir but don't bother with the lumps. I use a wooden mixing spoon to scratch out the batter and my finger to scoop the extra into my mouth.
Once in a seldom while, I get an intractable urge to scrape the bowl clean.
One day these minutiae, these memorable
tidbits of time, will vanquish with me. The wind will scoop them up and cast them off into an open sky. Like dandelion seeds they’ll wander alone, with nothing to hold onto — lost wishes looking for a new home.

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