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A Place Called Julian, California

It’s an unincorporated mountain town in the northeast corner of San Diego. It’s known for its apple pie, small eateries, trinket stores and B & B’s. During the day if you are lucky, a horse and carriage will go by down the street at a slow pace. You can hear the clip clop of the horse’s hooves on the pavement.

As you have lunch on the patio with a deadening glare from the sun and a mountain breeze you can hear the single bark of a brave dog that echoes through the trees and hillside. A white smoke rises up and hovers above the trees and you wonder why you ever have to leave this moment and forge on for the rest of the day and into tomorrow.

You look at the person or people across from you as you eat lunch; you look into their eyes and you wonder if they love you – if they ever loved you. You wonder if you are acceptable of if you are to be accepted. Or have too many things been said, too many feelings slighted or unnoticed. Too many unkind deeds done.

And then maybe you realize that with every single waking breath you are one of the lucky ones and always will be. You have been given and granted aptitudes that fall into the hands of the very few.

And I just sit there at the table with my food in intellectual paralysis imagining the white smoke above the trees and the single bark of the dog that I will never see.

It’d be great to hear from you,

Matthew R. Polkinghorne

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