I was planning to say something deep and reflective about the old clay pot I found this week.
I discovered it beneath the snowball bush that my wife strongly suggested I trim earlier this summer.
But then she noticed it on the kitchen counter this morning and asked, “What’s this pot doing here?”
I told her where I found it and when I started to wonder out loud where it came from she deflated me.
“Your mom gave it to me,” she said. “I left it outside. Did you think you made some sort of big archaeological find?”