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Dear Billy,
September 19, 2009
Dear Billy,
When I sit in the park, on a rare sunny day, I like to look at the slow wind, brushing against the leaves. It's quite funny because I always see it before I feel it brushing inbetween my fingers and lapping against my cheeks. Billy when you died, the wind picked your death up and carried it through the branches. I can't feel it yet. I'm still waiting, bracing for the hurricane.
© Lindsey D., Marblehead, MA
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