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I ran my hand along a picket fence, counting heartbeats and running like a child, still carefully not stepping on the cracks, noting the furrowed ants bustling, thriving, ,wondering at a old chestnut tree that had somehow survived the blight, towering and ever so gently tilting the walking plane, presenting me with more ancient notions: Of tire swings, swaying, hung from low branches, of a lemonade stand secure in the shade.
My youth came flooding back to me, into me, and so I continued to give it life: The back door of a bread wagon opened, releasing the fresh-baked aroma; mother came out with a handful of dimes, buying what would've taken three hours to bake. On the houses' steps rested newspapers and the sturdy rounded bottles of milk, compliments of elsie the cow, truly a vision from the grazings of childhood. We played games on these walkways, like hopscotch, roller skating, and marbles. My bag of jewels: a cool green cat's-eye, a big blue boulder, and varicolored pockmarked throwaways.
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