There’s something thrilling about children with gold
hair. They calmly, simply, merely, wait for something remarkable in the making.
Hands cupped into binoculars, looking through child-hood eyes, they’re dripping
with youth. Fragrance of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, spill from the
roof of their mouths; and roll over the tops of their teeth. Honey sweet magic
on their lips; thick like melted chapstick. Endless summer days, lined with
crooked teeth and sun-kissed bare legs. Skin burning red. Hair gold and long, with those fingers gold
and strong. Waiting for mother; chasing butterflies. Facing laced lies.
Scanning for spies. Planning for the prize. Covered in skies, fries, supplies
and allies.
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