I used to fly kites at noon on the basketball
court in front of this church when I was a boy. I remember the sun
directly above me, making my shadow a round, dark puddle at my feet. The
silence seemed to ring from the dark interior of the church
and from the cool shades where the dusty leaves bowed. The tree has
aged exactly as I did since then. Last time I passed through the place,
the bleachers on both sides of the court (now just a parking place, I
think) were gone. The silence and the kites too. The tree will live on
even after my memory of this place melts in the sun.
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