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S. M. Beal

He left his leather jacket, the one that smelled like smoke and cotton candy. “Keep it,” he’d said with a laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow anyway.” What he didn’t say was that this jacket carried memories of midnight rides in a Jeep that should have died years ago, and gave him hugs that his dad couldn’t from beyond the grave, and how I was the only person he trusted to hold onto it. That’s what I wished he’d said because he didn’t plan on that icy patch. I wish he’d come back because the scent of him is fading.
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