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Lately, my June nights have been sooty, like our empty coal bin before we converted to natural gas. I remember clearer nights, and bright streetlights. We walked to the Blue Moon Cafe, blue neon reflecting onto the sidewalk and June bugs crackling underfoot no matter how carefully I stepped in my shiny new mary janes. We feasted on frogs legs, mother and I, whenever she wasn't waiting for romance, or a heavenly meteor shower. I was no different. My blue tam-o-shanter was chock-full of little gold shooting stars. She waited through twelve Junes, and twelve long, white winter moons, smoking her Pall Malls, until finally the wrong guy came along.
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