Eight Years Old
We were walking up Chapel Street hill in the dark.
My brother was done his Thursday night meeting with other boys. My mother and I were done our weekly trip to the library.
There were no leaves. There were no patches of green. Snow crunched beneath our steady footfalls.
The air bit up inside of my nose and my cheeks tingled with chill. My breath was a steady stream of white that would sometimes mask the stars that I would often look up at.
I was not tired as we walked up the hill. I was not cold.
I had a good book in my bag, I knew.
We would be home in time to watch The Cosby Show.
My mother sometimes looked up at the stars, too.
We were walking up Chapel Street hill in the dark.
My brother was done his Thursday night meeting with other boys. My mother and I were done our weekly trip to the library.
There were no leaves. There were no patches of green. Snow crunched beneath our steady footfalls.
The air bit up inside of my nose and my cheeks tingled with chill. My breath was a steady stream of white that would sometimes mask the stars that I would often look up at.
I was not tired as we walked up the hill. I was not cold.
I had a good book in my bag, I knew.
We would be home in time to watch The Cosby Show.
My mother sometimes looked up at the stars, too.
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