Knock, Knock...

Getting ready to move means I'm going through practically every single possession, scrutinizing each with the question: "Keep or toss?" in mind. It's a drag, and I begin to resent every single material object within the walls of our home. Jason shakes his head, muttering in bewilderment "So much junk..." Little does he know of how much the inherited family treasure has been reduced through the last two moves!
There are the occasional delights though, like finding the joke book that my Dad purchased to coax giggles out of me and my sister when we were younger. (Though little cajoling was likely needed.) And the inside cover reveals that my sister and I claimed the book as our own, by inscribing our names with childish hands. You can tell that I was a little older, since my inscription reflects the knowledge of cursive and familiarity with an ink pen, while Juliet's name appears in printed pencil. But the sibling rivalry is apparent too, it's likely not coincidental that Juliet firmly placed her name above mine.
The paperback falls automatically open to the knock-knock jokes. It must be a universal truth: Kids like knock-knock jokes.

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Luke.
Luke who?
Luke through the keyhole and you'll see!

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Olive.
Olive who?
Olive here, so let me in!

It is perhaps a secret truth, that I still enjoy a good knock-knock joke too.