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In the summer of 1963, a new family moved into the yellow house on the corner, right next door to ours -- two exceedingly well-groomed little girls, with shoulder-length curls pulled back tightly in elasticized baubles, and crisp pinafores. Although the differences between us seemed insurmountable at first, gradually we all became friends. Elaine and Kathleen's mother found me entirely frustrating though. From the day I pulled all of her carefully placed border plants out by their roots, until the day I locked her oldest daughter in our tool shed for a joke, then forgot to let her out, Mrs. Sutherland would beg, scream and plead with my mother to "tame your child."
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Today
I looked outside
the window of time,
across the faceless
landscape
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