The sun sat low over the fence line, casting long, golden shadows across the lawn just as it had every Fourth of July of my life. I was busy setting out paper plates on the picnic table, carefully anchoring them with heavy mason jars to keep the breeze from scattering them into my mother Diane’s rose bushes. At sixty-two years old, I still found a strange, quiet comfort in having a simple, repetitive task to occupy my hands… Continue Reading ⬇️
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