Friday, March 11, 2005

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The beaches I grew up on were made of white sand so fine that your toes have to grip it to gain any purchase. After a few steps the arches of your feet hurt from the effort. My favorite place was always the wavy line where the water came up, and I would walk along that line and read all the things you were writing in the sand. The sun would reflect off the sand, blinding me, causing lazy whorls of sunstroke to start wheeling in the back corners of my brain.

I remember my mother and myself on a road trip in my old car, singing as loud as we could, feet bare, arms hanging out the window. My hair wasn't windblown, it was perfect.

You all look familiar today, and I want to carve lucky five-leaved clovers out of flower buds and hand them to you personally.

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