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Little Red Wagon

It was many weeks ago, in my dreams. A recurring dream of my sister. God had called her home when she was but a child. I still remember her little pink nose and her freckles that glowed when she smiled or laughed.

I was her best friend and so was Wally Bear, an old sock doll she had tea parties with when she was but four years old.

She would often ask me to pull her in a wagon, a wagon from Western Auto my grandparents gave her on her birthday. I thought of the wagon in my garage, with it's broken handle duct taped.

Now what I write is the truth and I don't fantasize. Thirty years and many miles past.

Returning to Macon, for a family gathering and southern cuisine. It was in the heat of the night and the crickets were fiddling. I decided to take a stroll up the little dirt road that led to the cemetery.   

My emotions in check, I just wanted a moment alone with my baby sister so I could tell her how much I missed her.

Next to her stone was a small blanket spread out with a miniature tea set as Wally Bear smiled up at me. Then a whisper, I heard from behind me as I turned. It was my sister sitting in her little red wagon. The one with the broken handle.  








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