I have, since our introduction, kept the cork from every bottle. There are, with humor and shame- a few 1/2 corks, those are from when our love was young and my dexterity with the bottle opener was green. I keep corks and I only think I know why.
I'm digging for my keys in my purse- I have to get into my office. I have to pee- I have to get into my office! Gagging the abyss of purse I think I've got... no- that's a packet of gum. . . that's my business card holder. . . that's a cork. I have a cork in my purse?!?
The sickness to my sentimentality is almost
monumental in the amount of weird little artifacts that I keep. Reminders of love, good times, family here, family gone, family of choice. I find that I keep some of the most bizarre benign things. Corks are a favorite. I have plans of fashioning my corked times into trivets or an argyle patterned
back splash in a kitchen (yes, I have that many).
I finally got into my office. I got home and chunk the cork into the huge glass decanter with its mates. I find myself staring at the corks. I briefly wonder if this may not be the sign of a problem but I don't entertain that long. It occurs to me that so many of those corks were bottles of wine shared with friends. A few I finished myself, unselfishly.
OK- maybe more than a few. . .
I have managed to turn something shared with others into something I get to cherish in my own space. I didn't know it at the time.
I still don't know what to do with all these corks.
