It was a blush of love: my dead people were the best. I had a flash of my mother, her red hair tied back in a ponytail, helping me tug off my flimsy winter boots, and then rubbing my toes one by one. Warming up big to, warming up baby toe. In this memory, I could smell buttered toast, but I don't know if there was buttered toast. In this memory I still had all my toes.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Dark Places - Pg 32
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