I think of you often June . . . . . 

We threw rocks at a 55 gallon barrel. We swatted flies. We ate snow cones. She was 7 years old, my cousin, my buddy. 

She grew tired and nauseous. A doctor visit revealed nothing. She woke up and her lips were cracked and bleeding. The diagnosis was leukemia. A few weeks later her body was lowered into the ground in South Georgia. 

My buddy was gone. We were both 7 years old. Since then, I have lived 59 more years. 

June, I think of you often. I’ve seen you in different places and I made sure to speak. See you up there one day little buddy. 

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