budweiser

There’s something about springtime that compels me to remember my youth. It’s remarkably hackneyed to have these remembrances, and I try to shove them off, knowing that they’re empty, knowing that they’re shells of memories that ought to be tinged with a sadness of what’s been lost. In the end, I fight off that urge to remember the whole and embrace the part that my mind asks me to recapture. I throw off the fringes of the memory that taint the innocence of the image I hold in my head. I remember Sunday mornings with my mother,...

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