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Run.

The entrance to the trail that I frequent backs up to a row of rundown shotgun houses. At one of the houses, there is always a little old man sitting in a rocking chair drinking coffee on his back porch. We always wave at each other as I pass by. Really, I look forward to seeing him.
Except on Sundays. He is never there on Sundays.

I like to pretend he is at church praying for me.

10:02 a.m. - 2013-02-03

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