one last time

Using both hands, I squeeze the toothpaste tube to get out what little is left inside. A morsel of the past thrusts out with escaping air. Next time, I will have to brush my teeth with the new and unfamiliar toothpaste I bought at a local store.


As I drove out of the driveway, I did not turn. In the rearview mirror, however, stood an empty house filled with memories.
I was taking only necessities—forms, papers, and the minimum amount of clothes. And a tube of toothpaste, which I had bought a few days earlier after running out of the old one.
New beginning?



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