To walk hand in hand with your seven year old boy and hear the crickets' conversation on the infinite sidewalk: winding, twisting, miles and blocks of neighborhood.
Rain in the air.
Feet clip, clap - sandals because the weather is finally warm.
We are spies. We hide behind cars.
Headlights sweep and we run. We run...
Twinkle of the streetlamp. Flickers. Dies. Cascades of Memories:
My own childhood.
Little hands. Dirty feet.
Catching a frog and watching him hop into oblivion...
We will see him again.
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