Try again, looking through my eyes.
Where you see paper towels, I see promise. Hope. The expectation that we O’Briens will live another day. Maybe even another two weeks.
In all of our life together, Larry has never purchased a 12-pack of paper products. Granted, ours is a 1926 cottage style home with very little in the way of closets or storage. Pantry? Pan try again. Even our refrigerator, purchased pre-progeny, is problematically small. So for us to have a Sam’s Club or Costco membership would be a cruel waste of savings, not to mention mini quiches.
Still. We have room for toilet paper. We can do this, I tell him. Why just wipe for today--when we can also WIPE FOR TOMORROW!
And still, the man shops like a hospice nurse. He doesn't come right out and say the end is near, but when he walks in the door from Kroger with a twin-pack of toilet paper, you can’t feel too great about your odds.
So this. This TWELVE-pack of paper towels is a very promising thing indeed.
I hardly know what to make of it.
Or, for that matter, where to put it.