Fiction | December 01, 2001
Wishbones
Ann Joslin Williams
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Our father always called my mother Bean. She was slender and crisp. Now her cheeks sank in darkened hollows. Her nose was a pointy beak. I found her on the front porch, looking off toward the mountain. She flinched when I came up on her; then her arms trembled and one leg quivered in a little burst as if she had a chill
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