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Remembering McCarthy

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“Our twelve year old calloused bare feet patted on the hard earth on our way to the secret place we shared. Remember that place McCarthy? The abandon train car?” the elderly lady mumbled to herself as her feet slowly made their way down the leaf-coated gravel road. “You’d always steal those cigarettes from your daddy and I’d swipe the lighter from old Mr. Daniels store. Then at church you’d say ‘why hello Evelyn Sabitini and that would be our code to meet. If you used my full name. Every other time you’d shorten my last name and call me Sabi.” The women smiled as she spoke, reminiscing in the memories of her youth. “We’d meet and smoke and talk of how those adults treated too young. Do you remember that one time in late August?” The old lady found her way around concrete and stone mounds before stopping at one. “That one time, oh we must have been twelve, and you looked at me and said, ‘Sabi, imma marry you. I think I love you.’ you stepped up into the train car and motioned for me to follow. ‘Ah s*** McCarthy’ I had said.” The women knelt in front of the engraved stone. “Remember how you smiled and told me ‘just wait’” She picked up her wrinkled finger and traced the engravings on the cold dead stone.



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