. . . count one drop of water

. . . There was even better water not far from my grandparents’.  Up.  Above.  When we would hike up in the quakies along Sawmill Bench I could put my mouth right down into the stream, or cup a diamond-dripping handful to my mouth, tasting together the cold sweetness of the water and the salty warmth of the palm of my hand. . . .

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[story: “a drop of water“]

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