Johnny had been on earth for thirty-four years. Less than a week ago, he walked on those streets. And now the cup, the ring and two unironed waiter's aprons at home were the only concrete objects left to connote that a man had once lived. There were no other physical reminders of Johnny, as he had been buried in all the clothes he owned with his studs and his fourteen-carat gold collar button.
( Betty Smith )
[ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn ]
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