I spent most of my time growing up in Marlborough, Connecticut. In the center of town, there was an ice cream shop. It’s gone now, but while it thrived, and while my sister and I were young, it was a frequent destination for our family. I remember only two things about it, aside from its prominent location on Route 66, adjacent to the town’s only bank, one half of its pizza restaurants, the lone pharmacy, and a florist.

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Observation

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The past two days, I tore through Rebecca Solnit’s Men Explain Things to Me, a collection of essays which includes her now-famous piece of the same name, the contents of which I’ll reflect on later this week.

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The western sky bled out the remainder of the sunset and we lay cheek to cheek in the dewy lawn, our feet pointing to noon and six. As the sky grew dim, the stars faded into life and their juxtaposition against the orange haze gave the illusion of an old photograph, speckled white as if a grainy film. The barn was just up the hill and we knew we’d walk there later but not just yet. A bard owl spoke to us from across the field. Stark silhouettes of the naked autumn trees on the horizon.

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As I walked home from the library, the soft scuffle of gravel underfoot went crshhh, crshhh, crshhh. At the next corner, a man shuffling up the sidewalk with a slight limp, favoring his right side, layered on shhhhhhh–tck, shhhhhhh–tck. The wind overhead, seeping and flowing through the grid of buildings, fffoooooooooshhhh, a soft ethereal melody underneath the beat. A howling child accompanied by mom passed by across the street, ahhheeeeeeeyeeaaaa, a backing vocal.

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