Premonitions arrive at my house, with and without invitations

Creative Writing Poetry

The flyers that are delivered despite the “No Junk Mail” sticker on my mailbox are an omen. If there’s a truth that everyone should know, it’s sold at Canadian Tire, discounted for Black Friday. Which does not align with a particular day of the week, but has become a fortnight of Fridays, each more uncountable than the last. Much like omens, you see. If you get a proper subscription, your omens will be delivered at regular intervals, like a meal kit. Ready for assembly, though sometimes with baffling substitutions. Like a lime instead of a lemon. I mean, who could think that auspicious citrus fruits are interchangeable? Honestly. I want to believe in a deep meaning to unrelated events, but it’s so hard when different delivery services can’t keep their portents straight. My more generous heart reminds me that everyone is tired, that we are all wounded, carrying trauma that spills into strange mailboxes. It isn’t FedEx’s job or Canada Post’s job or even Canadian Tire’s job to cast wooden spoons and tell me what will happen next. If I breathe and receive the messages within Bulk Barn’s featured items, will it remind me how to measure and weigh the memories in these bins so I have enough for Christmas cake?

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