I noticed them more and more over time. Corks. In ashtrays, on unused planters, next to wine glass coasters. Lots of corks, in my parents house. When I visited, I stayed in an upstairs bedroom, and I shared the space with corks. I always wanted to ask after their origin, but never did. I assume they were from times of celebration. I think back; there must have been a story to each cork, and now I'll never know. I have only my imagination to fill in the blanks. I didn't ask, and now they cannot tell. The house is gone as well, the corks scattered to the four corners of the earth, each one holding a nugget of my parents' history. I wish I'd asked.