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Yearning for the Tastes of Childhood

My mom taught me how to bake with yeast. Whenever she made the small tatar meat pies, she would make twice as much dough as she needed. 130 more words



When I was about twelve I was home alone at my father’s house. I don’t know where everyone else was or why I wasn’t with them. 374 more words

Eddie, Me, and the One Time I Never Spoke Up

I was seven when my parents transferred me to a private, mixed age level school. Before that, I went to a neighborhood school. The first time I remember actually feeling empathy mixed with fear was in kindergarten, when our fat, bully of a principal, wearing his too-tight, grey polyester suit and black horn rimmed glasses, strode into our classroom, scowling, and picked up a boy named Eddie by the armpit. 1,346 more words

My, What a Colorful Aura You Have

Ok, this one might be a bit “out there”… but it is something that I’ve thought about for a long time. Years.

I believe that, when we were young children, we could see a lot more than we let ourselves see now. 197 more words


In a little village on an island in the South Pacific, there are lots of things that are considered tabu- sacred or forbidden. Some of those things are words or phrases. 41 more words


Swinging in the Sun

Many days and nights have passed me by, yet there are none that I remember as vividly as that midsummer’s day so long ago.

I had just turned eight and swung gaily in the playground near my school. 2,039 more words


Mustard photographs

Small groups
Of innocence
Stand huddled
Like poses
For photographs
and I think
Of my fathers
And the mustard
I spilt
On my top… 241 more words