One Potato Review

All of the private little things you notice upon moving to new town, a new house, a new neighborhood: this book is so deeply felt, and so specific, it might have just happened yesterday. There are moving men, yes, which everyone can remember, but also evocations so peculiar they can only be the product of one person’s very real, and relatable experience. Because that is the thing about moving that is worth remembering finally: the unaccountable strangeness of something as common as parsley with your scrambled eggs at the motel diner, “a rusty white bucket full of white flowers, and a faucet that won’t turn on no matter how hard I try.” And parents arguing over where to put a picture, and the sun busting in (since no curtains), still no one example, and no two, and no six, can finally do justice to the wonder of this accumulation. Honest, optimistic, and earned.