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When I was growing up, everyone told me the childhood years were the magical years. I don’t think any of that is, or ever was, true. Not after that nightmare my friend David and I had that snowy and ice-cold season of winter. That year, 1978, felt like it lasted forever. We made a vow to each other we’d never speak of it to anyone, ever. I guess you can say, well, I lied.

Everyday for fifteen years I thought about that unforgettable winter and what we did. How could I ever forget about the love of my life, Whitney, the girl who died in the icy waters of Cobblers Brook, slang fully known as, Sewer Lane.

Floating on the broken thick ice towards the river is what we did almost on a daily basis during every winter season. Occasionally we would fall into the freezing water up to our waist, laughing and slowly walking to the shoreline, and then we would wait until the freezing temperatures stiffened our pants.

The day Whitney came down to the shoreline to watch us float on the ice was the day our lives had changed forever. A girl, scared to even swing too high on the swing set when we were younger, found the guts to jump from the one lane bridge and onto the ice. Who knew she was jumping to her death, or should I say, murdered.














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