The damp, cold mornings and turtle dove-colored skies stir up memories of what I always remembered New England to be– the reason I loved it. The smell of grass, with dewdrops still quivering on the tips of the grass blades, the wet leaves, strewed upon the lawns and on the brick sidewalks– slippery blurbs of smudged oil crayons– a nuisance to blow or rake, as they cling to the ground and to each other with a sense of desperation.


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