Rebecca loved her collection until her death when she passed it onto her granddaughter, with whom she bonded with over their shared love of antiques.
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been here cleaning, cooking, decluttering, responding to every real and imagined emergency in her mom’s deteriorating mind; now everything was picked over, padlocked and repossessed and it was done: “Rest peacefully, Mama”.
Everything was rusted metal, and that appealed to Violet, but as she dealt with her realtor, she talked about how much work it needed to negotiate the price down to a more manageable number.
Alice rocked back and forth humming an old tune, one she had sung for so many years that it made home in the wind, and when passerby took photos of the infamous home, they would swear that they could hear that same melody around the porch.
As her 83rd birthday approached, Virginia remembered her childhood, her marriage, her life as a frilly, tainted prison.
The writer requires a room of her own; the divorcée requires storage space: and now she had both.
She sat here every night and watched, and had for more than 40 years, and can tell you family by family, child by child, cop by cop, exactly what is wrong in Ferguson.
All that was left for her was to watch the world pass by the front porch while she slowly lost her battle with the disease that was slowly eating at her like the rust on the porch railing.
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