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April 2014, vol 10, no 1

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Tom Painting

Winter solstice

As a child, I never knew my grandmother anything other than bedridden. Her curtains were always drawn, bathing the room in half-light. I would sit on the cedar chest in the corner, while my mother cooed sweet-nothings to her mother, propped up on pillows and under a patchwork quilt, made from my grandfather’s neckties. What I found troubling was a moldering smell that I still associate with a woman lost in her own skin.

double feature
after the credits
the light