Every time I peel an orange and inhale the scent of it and feel the mist that sprays from its skin, I think of a very special Christmas and a flaxen-haired boy who lived many years before I was ever born.
That boy was Frankie, my grandmother’s youngest brother.
Whenever my grandmother spoke of him, her eyes would soften and I could feel how much she loved him. He was the youngest boy of nine children in the Stowell family. My grandmother, Stella, was the oldest and felt that she had helped raise them all.
Joy of Reading 
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