She’d always wondered what a sycamore tree looked like, ever since she’d learned Dream a Little Dream of Me. Tall, she thought, with heavy branches. Light leaves, perhaps even with a hint of silver when the sun hints them. And gold during sunset. A row of them planted along the edge of a field near a creek. If you lay beneath them, the wind would make the leaves sound like they were whispering secrets to you. Instead, she lay beneath the clothesline on the concrete patch that was her backyard and stared at the clouds, the washing line turning the empty sky into a barred prison cell window.

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