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Word Count: 380
CreakCreakCreak went the old rotted floor boards of the aged farm house The worn boards were soft but cold on my once warm feet I teetered back and forth wiping the sleep residue from my eyes revealing the freshly gathered eggs sizzling from the hot skillet I saw the outline of my grandmothers plump body her shoulders were slightly slumped one hand holding to the stove and the other to a black skillet She turned at the sound of the creaking footsteps scooped me up in her arms and sat me at the round wooden table held together my small rusted nails She flipped the sunny-side-up eggs from the skillet into a small white plate She took an old but clean fork and mashed my eggs up so that the yolk covered the white part then she handed me a fluffy piece of bread that could melt in your mouth and did when sopped with eggs I quickly ate and followed the lingering smell of cigarette smoke to the front porch to see my Poppy he was sitting broad shouldered in his unbuttoned checked flannel shirt His old blue slacks matched the checks in his shirt I caressed the wrinkles with my small finger and felt the years of dilemma he had faced I slid down his leg and strolled through that old wooden frame held together by screen and a long spring letting it slam behind me I opened the over night bag that my mother had packed and slipped on a pink tee shirt jean bibs and white sandals Though my sandals never stayed on long I would kick them off so that I could feel the warm moist dirt on my feet while we checked the garden the cool wet tingle of the creeks edge and the tickling grass as I ran through the yards After breakfast there were always small chores that had to be done The chores were never really
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