“A chip on the edge” is a very literal description of a wonderful, improbable occurrence that took place in San Diego a few years ago.  One day, while visiting my mother, she took me into her kitchen and pointed to her windowsill.  There, perched on the outside ledge of an unopening window, eighteen stories above the quiet streets of East Village, a small chocolate chip sat, looking out across the sprawl of Coronado island and the glittering sea beyond.  We could conjure up no story to explain its appearance that was not wildly unlikely, though we had fun in trying.  Eventually, we let it be, a chip on the edge, until with wind and weather, it slowly dissolved into a small, greasy smudge.  

Why this is unforgettable to me, I can’t quite say.  Something about the absurdity and smallness of it all charmed me.  I believe in the unlikely, the thing that exists for no reason, the unknown, the beautiful, the hidden details in a large, loud world - the same world which is itself a charmingly absurd, improbable occurrence. And I am inclined to celebrate it all.