He lies now in her memory bin,chocolate and cream,sandwiched between herdaughter’s board books and herson’s lambswool comforter. Not as plush as in the picture,that hand-tinted photo of the two-year-old girlholding him, silky-new, not yet smelling of lost youth’s dust. She looked passively into the camera,just inks of black, white and grayuntil the tinter stroked her […]
Joanne E Sprott, Intuitive Mentor
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