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The Tire Swing by Shirle Reade

It was her spot.  Not as secret or hidden as she might have wanted, only out of ear shot not out of sight, but hers nonetheless.  Her coat lay in a puddle of bright bubble gum pink, forgotten, amongst the cool grass and wet leaves.  Her mother had insisted she wear it today.  Perhaps, needing to feel in control of something, as mothers often do, but the likely hood of her disobedience being discovered was slim.  So she chanced it.  Because her mother didn’t understand, today was perfect.  The sun was warm where it touched her with it’s dappled light, and though the wind was cold its bite was intermittent.  As the frosty air blew back her long chestnut pigtail braids she smiled at the blue sky and its heavy clouds.  Because it was fall, and from her tire swing perch life was perfect.

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