To stará mama’s house we go.

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Crying babies get buckled, tucked, and loaded up rebelling against what they do not know. It’s not over the river and through the woods, but over the highway and through the industrial wasteland.

The little travelers sleep. A Meditation from Tchaikovsky plays amidst snores and static.

And then at the end of the long gray drive is a warm home on a spot of green. And hot chicken broth to be drunk. And unbounding affection to be received. A joyful visitation. A happy end.

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To stará mama’s house we go.

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