On these April mornings that only hint of spring, with a child's anticipation, she says "Will you roll me to the garden?" Removing her shawl, "You can go now. I'll be fine." She will sit for hours, fumble out of her slippers, dig her toes into the ground, her arthritic body opening to the sun. Just when I think she's fallen asleep, she cackles as the neighborhood tom attacks a crow. At dinner, we cut her meat, butter her bread. She shakes, food drops on her robe. We don't have peas anymore. One night, hearing giggling girls, I entered her room to find her and mom sprawled on the floor, her unwilling body taking them both down. She will be 93 tomorrow, celebrating in the garden, blowing seeds off dandelions, digging weeds with her toes.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org