Hand Scraped
I'd just walked in the front door having worked later than I'd like, and tossed my keys and wallet onto the top of the entryway table, something I do every day when I get home. I casually aimed for the cheap ceramic bowl that sits near the center of the table, in between a dust-covered clock that is only correct twice a day and a photo of my grandparents when they were much younger. It's not unusual for me to miss the bowl, but this time, my keys slid across the top of the black table and knocked into the over-turned gray dish. The few pennies and nickels that could be found in the bowl were scattered on the table. After I looked at the unusual site for a few moments, I shrugged my shoulders and moved along down the entryway, kicking off my shoes in the process, leaving them haphazardly in the middle of the walkway to the living room area. I moved towards the couch and heavily plopped my tired body into the soft, worn leather, letting out a too-loud sigh. I sat in the quiet
