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The Frost Comes Every June

October 27, 2012

By JacqueleenDubois, levittown, PA

It was 4:57 am when I woke up with a purpose. A purpose I hadn’t thought of yet. I rolled myself out of bed and crawled on my hands and knees over to the window.

It was June, and I was cold.

Frost spread over the inside of the window like a virus, growing and infecting every crevice and every corner.

I tried to peer through the frost. No avail.

With my steadier left arm, I took a red towel from the wash bin and wiped the virus away—leaving transparent pieces of a broken reflection in the absence, one where I stood blessed in grace…for I saw a man standing on the water of the in-ground chlorine pool my mother had saved up for all winter.

The man was God. He came every June.

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