writer's camp day 1.
4:59 pm / Sunday, Aug. 26, 2007

We just called the doctor again. We called in the same frenzy that tears leaves from the oaks in the fall. We grew up on a street with oaks in the lawns, big orange and golden leaves crunch even from the strength of the breeze. You know that excitement, you’re just as much a romantic as I. Tin can telephones strung from branch to branch—a climbable height. We weren’t the types to dole out codenames, or plan specific times of correspondence, never synchronized our watches. But if your hair happened to be there at the same time as mine, we’d shout jokes across the black-eyed Susan in your mother’s garden. The air was chewier, like a granola bar, in our birth month. You suffered a whole twelve months where children were born before I came to boss you around. How your days must have dragged!

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