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There is a large honeysuckle bush outside my kitchen window. On mild spring days when I nudge the aging window open, a fragrant breeze wafts inside, tickling my neck and loosening wisps of hair around my face as I work on various tasks. The honeysuckle smells delicious; I imagine its small, pale yellow flowers taste as good as I remember them tasting in my childhood. In a backyard in South Carolina, many years ago, there was another honeysuckle bush that tightly hugged a rusty chain-link fence and beckoned my brother, sister and I to pick the sweet little buds one by one, sucking the honeyed nectar out as we reached for more.

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