Friday, July 5, 2013

It was about 4:00 p.m.


I approached a tattered church. The doors and windows were boarded up, discarded clothing and trash were strewn about. One sad tree stood in front. And the air smelled like strawberries. How? I stopped. There was a low breeze. Unopened mail skittered across the dirty sidewalk, past my feet. It was unmistakable. Strawberries.

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