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If there was a time when a person stood on a pier and tossed into the sea a bottle with a note written in a neat hand on a single sheet of paper and someone, on another part of the world, the beach where that pier may be attached, found the bottle, would that be fate?
If you were a man throwing the bottle what would you think? If you were a woman who, on a three week vacation paid for in advance, found that bottle on a sunrise walk, would you think it was kismet?
What about if the throwing, finding, throwing, finding happened every day of the three week vacation you were on? Would that help you forget the failed relationship that sent you on the three week vacation?
Would that make you forget the dismal dull pain of a recurring clerical error?
Written by Rebecca Milton
Published by AmorBooks
When I was young, a child, at that age of asking why and how come and what if, I recall asking my parents how I came to be.
We were sitting around the dinner table, myself, my mother, and my father, eating a casserole of chicken and rice that I didn’t care for and — though I didn’t learn this until much later in my life — my father utterly hated. My mother made this dish for dinner when she was angry with my father and wanted to punish him in some small, niggling way.
