Our Epilogue

I've been here two weeks now, back in this city we used to call home—this time just long enough to pack. Things feel the same here, and so different. There’s a vine of ivy wrapping around the wire outside the house, climbing straight up the line, beautifully silhouetted against the light morning sky. The ivy was still green when I came into town, still fresh, still holding life within, despite being severed from the earth. 

I'm leaving tomorrow, which is good, because there are only two creamers left. Funny—I didn't plan it that way.

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The Geriatric Protestors

They came with their oxygen tanks, their extra cardigans, and their signs. Some were wheeled out, and some shuffled slowly with the aid of walkers to sit heavily in the chairs the young people had set up for them minutes earlier on the corner of Miller and Camino Alto. Every Friday afternoon at four found them here—protesting faithfully for peace in the California sunshine. Most of them had started in the sixties, during Vietnam, and had been protesting ever since...

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