Mended

"I don't care if is door. Or a window. It's nothing but a thin sliver of chance." Momma perched on the edge of her green recliner, the gaps in the vinyl mended with duct tape. She was always fixing things that way, mending arguments and things broken with patches or kisses floated through the air upon a ring of smoke.

I pushed aside the tarp covering the cabin's entrance and stepped into cool mountain air. The tips of the pine needles birthed fat drops of rain. The birdsong was tentative and cautionary.

"You leave me now, you ain't never seeing me again, you hear?"


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