Time travel at the gas pump

Sometimes the past blows in with the breeze. Just the other day while pumping gas I found myself sitting at a table in my safety town class. The air heavy with humidity and the waxy scent of crayon. The sky bright and the breeze heavy. My cotton dress just short of stopping my legs from sticking to the chair underneath me. Then, running outside. Remembering to the point of feeling the pride I had saddling up on the small tricycle I used to navigate the black pavement, around the cones. Carefree and safe and under the sun.


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Oh, to feel that safe again.

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