On my lunch hour yesterday, a bag of dried thyme burst open when I dropped it.
“I just spilled a bunch of thyme,” I remarked to Allyson as I passed her on the way to retrieve the broom from the laundry room.
“Mmm,” she replied, eyes never leaving her cell phone screen.
“Doesn’t that sound poetic, spilling thyme?” I asked, but I was left to ponder that thought alone.
I did ponder over it all through my customary lunchtime walk in the park. What could it mean to spill time?
