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In Other Words, Hold My Hand

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Today is the last day of a good run. Sure, there is the weekend, but Saturday and Sunday don’t count on our calendar of summer. Those days are always different. Those days always have their own feel.

Today is the start of the Summer Olympics and the temperature outside won’t dip below triple digits for another month, but in our house it is fall.

There is football on the TV, albeit pre-season, and there is talk of baseball pennants, races, and strong finishes.

There is no crispness in the air or relief from the heat, but the night is warm and full of stars to play among and a moon to fly to.

There is a little boy on the couch watching cartoons in his underwear, strapped beneath an empty backpack that soon enough will never be empty again. He is a poster for innocence and a hope for the future. I am tainted and I am clinging to the past.


Photo courtesy of Whit Honea

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