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I was seven that summer morning between first and second grade when I had my first taste of wooing. Danny was a quiet classmate, someone I’d smiled at once or twice and shared my reading book with on a half-dozen occasions when he couldn’t
I got a card from my not-so-secret pal a few weeks back. She’s eleven, blonde-ish, and creeping up on me height-wise. She lives in the bedroom above mine. As far as secret-pal duties go, she favors sneaking up on me when I’m working and
Gage follows me into the bathroom and watches while I put the brush back where it belongs. As we turn to leave, he settles his gaze on the drawer where I keep the bandaids — the boring ones, and the ones I’ve collected just for him.
It took a lot of faith to get in that car twenty-nine years ago, and drive seven hours to a town I’d never been to, with a boy I hadn’t known a year. It took all the faith I had to stand and face him, and take his hands, and promise before
I saw the boy as Dave and I were driving out the back entrance of the Starbucks parking lot. I’m amazed I noticed him at all because I was totally consumed with my iced grande soy latte. I’d been trying to get up the courage to try a soy
Her name was Martha, and she was born eleven years, two months and thirty-eight days before me. She was covered by Farmers Insurance and adhered to a strict regimen of minerals and supplements; her daily dose included 300 mgs of Passionfever