In The Mystery Hours
Mystery hours is what my grandmother called them – that part of night that doesn't belong to yesterday, today, or tomorrow. The time when the minutes slipped through our fingers as we held hands and danced under the stars.
The mystery hours taught me how to be a proper lady. How to fry bacon and scramble eggs, how to skim the cream off milk. How to set a table, address an envelope. Dance, sing, whisper, giggle, tip-toe. The mystery hours created calluses on my feet and a vault of family history in my heart.
The dead of night can only be appreciated by those who understand the value of hard work, who know that early to bed truly is early to rise. When the air around you is thick and empty and the only people in existence are you and yourself.
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