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The Summer of '85

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Our makeup was as bright as our emotions,
our hair as big as our dreams.
We piled on thin bracelets a
memory at a time,
daring our Converse-clad feet to
moonwalk, to do what our parents
had dreamed.

We had Walkmen then, not iPads and Blackberries.
Our hairspray lingered far after we had left those August nights.
One-quarter of a century. So much has changed. We sat in the sand,
looking at the wisteria moon and
letting evening wash over our toes.

Last night I drove to the shore.
Our footprints have been washed away
but the moon remembers. So much has changed. So much has not.



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