At home Winona don’t sing minstrel songs but those other songs that carry her back to where she begun in the innocence of her youth. We are racked to think we don’t know who even her mother was or maybe it was a woman that we killed. God knows that feels like a colossal-sized crime betimes and if you was counting crimes on a abacus maybe it won’t be the only one we done against her. She could slit our throats in the night with justice, spray out our blood redly on the linen pillows. But she don’t do that. She sings and we listen and all three are returned to the prairie in our heads. She to
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