In the late summer
of 1971 I was about to enter fourth grade.
I was eight years old that day.
The sky was a clear blue, the summer air was calm, we were in a high,
with a slight breeze that blew west to east.
My mother
stood before me and held in her hand, a book.
Mom stood 5’5” or so, hips, and shoulders with curves that killed. Back then she had recognized something about
me that I was uncertain of. She held out
a book, it was five inches in height by seven inches in width
approximately. The book was pink with
gold lettering in script, written on an angle.
The word said, “Autographs” .
As she handed me
the pink, hard, yet cushioned covered book to me; a second later she asked,
“May I have it back?”
I wondered why,
yet I slowly handed it back to her. After she received the book back from me,
she then looked me in the eye and asked, “Is it okay that I write something in
it for you?”
I responded, “Yes
Mom.”
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