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This is the smell of gingerbread cookies
Baking in grandma’s kitchen at Christmas time.
It’s the taste of an orange creamsicle
In the heat of mid-July.
This is the sight of land
After being lost at sea for months.
It’s a song on the Oldies station
To which you somehow know all the words.
This is a warm fuzzy blanket
On stormy nights.
A familiar face
In the middle of Times Square;
The warm fudge center
At the heart of every Molten Cake.
Its footsteps next to yours in the sand.
It’s a big woolen jacket on a chilly day;
Big and suffocating at times,
But always a symbol of warmth and comfort.
These are arms that will always hold,
Smiles that will always soothe,
Ears that will always listen.
This is family.

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