My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

— Stories from the Roads (Not) Taken

Fifty words, she says. A happy memory from your youth.

Hnuh.

Too many times I’ve mined that barren childscape. Too long I’ve blamed myself.

Instead,  memory journeys with my long-gone teenage self to the fount of all  my joy. To the only word of  fifty I  have ever loved.

You.

*****

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