I loved over-the-top, showy peonies as a kid. From a tight round bud, an exuberance of pink, or white, or both. Fragrant to match their drama. Haven't seen them much since I left the East Coast decades ago. Well, they showed up and thriving in my now hometown of Walnut Creek. Guess I'll keep looking for the treasures I left behind.
we hid beneath a weeping willow tree and did all we weren't supposed to do: smoking, kissing, showing parts of our body to the new friend. What else was hiding in that lonesome land-- grownups, kids, animals stalking each other as the night drew slowly close? Biography lives in memory, which lives in the tangible, like an orange bursting open on a plate beside the fortune cookies.
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