I watched my dead mother eating jam on a cracker at Stonewall Kitchen. It was the turn of her shoulder, the tilt of her head. She tossed gobs of sweet jam in her mouth and went on her way in search of the next sample -- strawberry rhubarb, blueberry peach, champagne marmalade -- dolloped extravagantly onto a white thin crisp. When my breath returned, I walked towards my mother only to see a woman who was not her. The hair color was wrong, the face that of a stranger. Her high cheekbones were puffy and sagged. I am heading back to Stonewall Kitchen to look around for her, just in case. I’ll eat jam on a cracker while I wait.
17/6/2017 09:01:34 am
There are some words that reach into your heart and rip the feelings out. This brief is both beautiful, rich, and just wonderfully done. And it ripped my heart out.
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