Fiction | December 01, 2001
Naked Man
Willa Rabinovitch
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We are nothing alike. If my mother had had a coffee-colored baby with nappy hair after she went off with Clay Dixon, that child would look more like her than I do. Now, of course, she has the sagging cheeks, the giving-way at the jaw line. At the airport, any of the old women getting off the plane could have convinced me they were her.
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