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Gwen Rhodes

I awake to an unusually brisk morning. The crisp scent of cool air instantly clings to my sweater as I saunter outside. I step off the creaking oak porch and gaze towards the barely lit horizon where my grandparents' lavender farm lies. I make my way toward the field as the sleepy sun wakes to reveal rows of a glorious hue. I slowly step in, my bare feet sink into the lush jade sod, the morning dew sticks to my soles leaving a cool, tingling sensation. I extend my arm outwards so that my long fingers weave between silky plumes of lavender. Leaning to my right, I pick a small plume, bring it to my nose and inhale deeply. Its aroma spreads throughout my aching muscles, tenderly unwinding each tension. Mornings like these make me wish I could stay lost in the vast field forever. Mornings where the sun begins to saturate the canvas in a soft watercolor and hazy fog blankets each aromatic bloom. I know soon that the serenity will subside and visitors will harbor each aisle as they eagerly try to soak in the beauty, but unlike me, they will never know the magic that accompanies the farm at dawn.

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