Connecticut
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June was mercy. Quiet days at home — slow mornings, sitting in the sunshine reading, noticing wildflowers, planting a belated garden for the kids, long walks with my husband. An endless stream of kids in and out of the door, sticky floors and dripping freeze pops, days spent in the backyard playing in the water
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March is a tease. The trees are heavy with red blossoms waiting to bloom and daffodils shine like the sun against the gray and brown landscape. But it’s cold outside, and spring hasn’t yet come to New England. Actually, we’re supposed to get snow on Thursday, which is stupid. Because we’re tired of being cold,
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I run through rows of corn taller than my twelve-year-old frame. The fuzzy, prickly stalks pull at my arms and legs and, occasionally slice like a paper cut into my skin. Somewhere, deep within the tidy rows, a bare circle of ground hides like an accidental fort…that magical spot where the tractor turned around and






