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Sycamore

I remember your old cape at 3 Sycamore

I dream about it often

It permeates my thoughts when things are too much

It’s where I fell in love with the radio

The hours I would spend listening while sprawled about

Elvis, Buddy Holly, the Platters; I still get the chills when I hear those songs

It’s where I became Jim Rice, hitting countless tennis balls into the street; You saw every home run through the big glass window

It’s the particular fragrance upon entering that provided indisputable evidence I was there; I can still smell it in my mind today

Food was always plentiful, much more than any boy in the third percentile would ever need

The ice cream that was always in high supply in the garage freezer; You called it the “Three Kinds”

You can still have the strawberry

It was here that I spent most weekends during my formidable youth; from ages seven to about thirteen

Before sports, hanging with the guys, and, later on, girls, took me away

At the time I had not one inclination how incredibly fortunate I was or how much I would long to go back to those precious few moments

Freeze frame for innocent youth time does not

Life can be incredibly cruel that way

I don’t get down that way much anymore; when I do, I take a quick detour to 3 Sycamore and allow myself to be that kid once again

Author: Whipped Owl

Writer Musician Historian Sportsman Loner

3 thoughts on “Sycamore”

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