Path to the Hills
You are the freshly opened tin of Walkers Shortbread.
You are the first choice between the unadorned circle, the perforated rectangle, or the pretzel with fat sugar crystals on top.
You are the pretzel with the fat sugar crystals on top.
You are the sound of the crinkled paper wrappers rubbing against each other and you are definitely the pleasant weight of a cookie and its slightly greasy wrapper held in my hand.
But you are rare, and ephemeral, and how is anyone supposed to know how special a freshly opened tin of Walkers Shortbread is the first time around?
Since then I reach for every tartan-covered tin with a light flutter in my chest.
Yet lately I’ve only been finding sewing supplies inside.