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September 2015, vol 11 no 3

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Roger Jones


Mother comes up to me in the kitchen: "Are my people here yet?"

"Who are your people?"

She just looks at me.

"My people need to come back; they know I need a ride to go back home."

"You've lived here for almost ten years, Mom."

"I don't live here."

Dad explains the same thing to her. We are her people. This is her home.

"It's not my home."

She stands in the doorway, gazing out at the road, waiting.

childhood reader
flipping through the pages
upside down