Miss you. Would like you to try and teach me how to sew (again).

Miss you.  Miss your wise, wiry, smooth fingers touching and moving down embroidered fabric, opening your mouth to talk about distant lands and people I’ve never met.  You looked at me with such seriousness; I almost could have laughed but didn’t dare. 

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Dear Miss Lavender, Ltr. 3

Dear Miss Lavender,

If you could have only felt the crackle of yellow and orange and red cornflakes beneath your feet as I did today. The skies have turned icy silver and blue and the mornings come with that subtle nip of cold that autumn brings. Last week was the beginning of autumn, as formal as we know it. I have two apples on my table, which refuse to be eaten but sit, staring vehemently at me, as if to say, “with every bite you take of us, you will shorten autumn’s grasp”. So, I dare not touch them.

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Dear Miss Lavender, Ltr. 1

Dear Miss Lavender,

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood today. You will ask why, I know, for you are inquisitive, like all of us ought to be. It was beautiful because the sun rose, crisp and new from underneath its covers. It graced the sky with a message of lilac and petunia hope. You would have loved it, for you love early mornings and promises of beauty for a day yet unseen.

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dancing angels

the sun-bronzed, curly-haired boy sits slumped against the neck of his chair and nods at me as I pass in my silver car. I am not driving one of the large trucks charting boats into the park and thus, he has no reason for stopping me. Parked parallel to him sits a red mini van (perhaps his mother’s mini van because he doesn’t own car yet?). Maybe he’s saving up the money he earns from sitting and waiting for boats. Maybe he will find a rusted-over, belly-almost-touching-the-highway kind of beast to call his own. He’d be one of those kids that christens their first car with a bottle of fizzy water and names it “Chuck”.

He just seems like that type. But what do I know?

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