The gate to the front yard beckoned, only ten yards away. I pictured Mom inside the house working on supper. When I walked in she would take one look at my severely injured knee and immediately shift into motherly-care mode. She would gently wash the scrape and clean out the gravel. I could almost smell the hydrogen peroxide that she would pour over it, making it sting like the dickens. White droplets would puff out on all the scratches. “It’s killing the germs,” she would say as the tiny bubbles popped, whispering a fizzing sound.
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