Fiction | December 01, 2001
Wishbones
Ann Joslin Williams
This story is not currently available online.
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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