Big ol' troughs of cauliflower juice. Laid out on the floor. Bring em up with a gentle heat, right up to the edge of boil. Then cut it off. Nothing. Let it go cold.

Now start snapping pictures. Landscape orientation, maybe portrait. These memories last a lifetime. Keep em safe from the flood by sleeping with them clutched to your chest. Not just the trough photos, though we both know their special value, but whole albums full of pictures of all kinds of juices. Cactus juice. Lemon juice. Mercedes Benz juice.

All these juices poured out into troughs and let sit for years on the carpet floor. Take a guess which ones form a thick skin on top. Make a game out of it. Bring the family together. This is what you told the judge you wanted. Said it would be enough. All else is forgiven. Just want the family back.

Well here we are. God's own children, locked forever in his mystery, holding hands, standing in honor, staring down at big metal troughs full of cauliflower juice that sits nice and still for our camera lens, documenting our time here in each other's company.

No going back cause nobody wants to.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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