March 11, 2015

“Mother walked into a lake. It was a round lake, with gray water that was always smooth, even during the springtime storms. Mother waited until the sky was charcoal. She waited until there was lightning. She stood at the back of the house, just inside the storm door, and she watched the lake. It reflected back in her eyes. Her eyes were as gray as the water. She blinked slowly, her eyelids coming together as if in sleep, and then she opened them again. Everything mother did was done delicately.”


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