Nothing redeems like a walk through still December Maryland. I used to wax the runners of my Flexible Flyer, then glide between glass trees on slow rolling hills with snow resting like lazy clouds, through air filled with wood smoke and sparrows. My mother had sad dreams of dying alone in a big cold house built for children. She would feel the house grow as she shrank. I was too young to know why she hugged me and said she did not want to see past fifty. When I moved west I could not stop seeing in the dry hot wind and dust her dreams and my past wrestling alone, together in our big house. So I've come back to walk through December Maryland. Tomorrow I will tear apart the Flexible Flyer still hanging on the garage wall. From the splintered pieces I will build a small house and nail it to the dormant maple near her grave. I want her to see it filled with sparrows.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com