I am on the brink of moving again and meditating on what to pack and what to toss out. What to do with my most prized possession?
My glorious hammock; it was originally a hot brown, with whipped cream colored pillows that lace to poles stretching it to a welcoming rectangle, a chocolate bathtub, in which to heave oneself and contemplate the meaning of life while nuzzling the sweet warm breezes.
The tropics are hard on a fabric, even one as robust as woven rope. After a full year splayed under a fire-eating sun the color has faded, even the cream pillows are blotchy and pocked with mashed sugar ants. However, the greatest damage was inflicted by the iguana who inhabits the sweet almond tree.
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