unrelated objects–small treasures I’d collected over the past couple of years. Bones of a long-dead sparrow, the bright red feather of a cardinal, which my mother had always told me was a gift from the angels, a squirrel’s rib bone, and six of my baby teeth in a tiny, corked bottle. Beneath all that sat a picture of me and my mother from before her sickness had taken hold, one of Bee’s barrettes with a yellow- and white-stone bumblebee, odd coins and rocks I’d collected, and a crystal Glinda had given me for protection. Inside the box, I deposited the rosary, then closed it up and set it back
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