Peering up from my book, I quickly snuck a glance at the team. Apparently showing off one’s abs trumped potential frostbite. Although I’m certain they’d still be shirtless even if the weather dropped below zero. That was enough to indicate that fall was nowhere to be found here in sunny Georgia. I could still see morning practice and the members of the football team who were running around with their shirts off. Tucked away behind the football field, it was far enough away for privacy, but not totally isolated. It was my favorite reading spot on campus. I was sitting with my back against the last standing oak tree at Eastwood High, a book resting on my knees. Today was on a one-way ticket to being forgotten. I had gotten into the habit of ending every day with the same question: Was it worth remembering or forgetting? Then there were the days that made up most of my life, the ones that were completely unnoteworthy, blending into one another. There were days I would give anything to forget. But remembering wasn’t always a good thing. Or when I was ten and learned how to ride my bike without training wheels. The summer morning when my mom finally learned how to bake, which, coincidentally, was also the day our apartment stopped smelling like a smokehouse. THERE WERE CERTAIN DAYS I could remember like they were yesterday.
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