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Barefoot Summers

By Don Kenton Henry

Our fudge sickles, which were melting faster than we could consume them, provided our only respite from the heat. I savored the cool creaminess sliding down my throat – at the same time – trying to ignore the sticky river of chocolate running down my wrist and arm. A small pond of ice cream accumulated on the step below my feet and I watched an ant, having discovered it, run off under a shrub. I imagined him telling his friends of the cool brown oasis between the two hairy redwoods that were my legs.

Thanks for summers of my youth.

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