Yellow

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I remember Christmas morning years past with the yellow canary flying around the living room. I remember the tree, smelling like evergreen in a damp forest, the hot chocolate and the melting marshmallows mixing with the smell of bacon cooking. I remember the branches dangerously moving as the canary landed here and there. The bird was yellow and the fire was yellow and my mother, giggling, yellow in her nightgown, and the morning sun, shining through the window, yellow. So today, when I see the pet store’s yellow canary, I remember, and tonight I will want to call my mother.
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