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Foggy Days
On foggy days, Dad stood next to the flagpole, to which his bucket of roses was tautly tied.
On foggy days, he zipped his jacket up to his chin.
On foggy days, he called out, "Roses! Roses!"; only, his voice was buried in fog.
On foggy days, he blew warm air into his hands. (But he didn't mind the cold, because it numbed his fingers from the thorns.)
Roses! Roses!
On foggy days, his hands shone handsomely, darkly, against the grey, misty air.
On foggy days, his body ached more, as the cold cold mists dampened heavily on his head.
On foggy days, his smiles wore thin for the roses wilted with dew.
On foggy days, he lived no differently from sunny days, cheery days, or all the other days that never belonged to him.
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