Reaching down with my long wooden spoon, I stir the pot.
Round and round, mixing up a medley of flavors in this stock.
"A little bit of this, a little bit of that," a memory, a thought, an experience from the past
It begins to bubble and brew, things are cooking, melding together, rising to the top,
Things that are strong and make me cry, sweet and cause me to smile, bitter and make me wince.
The aroma fills the room and sometimes I am overwhelmed.
Dredging things up is not as easy as it seems, there are things that should be allowed to settle.
Still, I stir the pot.
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