Fiction | December 01, 2001

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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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