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in deep. run.



Learning to Fall: trail of tears.
I followed the path of broken windows, scratched cars with flattened tires, upended flower pots and mail boxes emptied of their mail all the way down the street and around the corner to Mr. Gill and Ms. Harriet's house. The red front door of their little house had a dark dirt clod stain smack dab in the middle of it, sliding down to the brass kickplate where a flower pot lay broken with one big daisy standing straight up, proud as a Christmas nutcracker.

Following Terry was easy. To the left side of the house the shutters and shrubs looked normal, but the right side and how it was all screwed up by his nine year old fuss made the house look teetery like it slept with its face pushed in against the pillow. The shutters, if not ripped off their hinges and keepers entirely, were bent shut on rusted hinges that pulled out of the windows some. The boxwood shrubs on that side of the house looked like someone used them as a ladder to get at the windows better, most of their limbs were split out and down to the ground. One of the storm windows was leaning up against the fence nearby with a crack in it running from one corner to the other.

Around back, where the bedroom was, with its little block privacy wall, the double sliding glass door where Terry and I saw Ms. Harriet's boobies was smashed to a billion pieces with the grill hanging half out the door. He used the grill like a battering ram.

I noticed the gas line and regulator swinging free, the propane tank was missing.







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in deep. run.




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