Peanutbutter on sourdough toast

Reminds me of California – of being home. Weekend mornings wandering the backyard. We had a wooden bench made from driftwood plopped in the middle of sweet peas and artichokes. I’d peer through the holes in the fences, see what the neighbors were up to. The devocalized greyhound straining for his voice again, the golden retriever that almost raped me once – dogs in our court scared the crap out of me. I liked our cats sunning under the lemon tree, dirtfull, bells on, following me eventually, hunting toads.

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