Today is a sorting and skimming through old journals day, which feels about right on this fall-ish August afternoon. There's a hint of something in the air.
In one, big book I found pressed leaves, faded red and yellow. And green. And this story, written by a first grader I met during last year's writer residency. I smiled reading it. Then felt a heart pang about how fast everything seems to go. And how tender it all is. And how kind people can be.
Adrian is my friend. He is a nice, kind boy. I met him in kindergarten. We like to wrestle. He came to my house. We had fun.
By John
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