There was something about the pale wispiness of her hair, a certain sturdy set of the shoulders. Something achingly, impossibly familiar. But I could not think it. I pushed it from my mind. My head pounded. I worked sporadically, slept fitfully. During the night, I woke to the feel of a small han...
At least, I don’t think she did—not what she would have considered lying, anyway. The thing about my mother was that she always loved a good story, right up until the day she died, tucked under my grandmother’s wedding quilt on the chesterfield in the airless and darkened front room. She simply b...