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A flattened and drying daffodil was dangling off the little card that I had made my aunt Atie for Mother's day. I pressed my palm over the flower and squashed it against the plain beige cardboard. When I turned the corner near the house, I saw her sitting in an old rocker in the yard, staring at a group of children crushing dried yellow leaves into the ground. - Breath, Eyes, Memory (ch. 1) [Books (First Lines)]
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