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Contents Page: July 1, 2011, vol 7 no 2

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Harriot West


The day grandma died

the morning fog rolled out leaving the grass wet enough to soak our sneakers, raspberries ripened on the vine, grandpa ate his in a white bowl with clotted cream and I could hear the seeds cracking as he chewed, the tide went out and we shimmied into bathing suits still damp and sandy from the day before, gathered up our pails and shovels and dashed to the beach below to build castles and knock them down before the tide could do it for us and when we came back, the door to grandma's room was closed and my brother and I were sent to cook's room and she tried to talk as though nothing were wrong but pretty soon an ambulance came and even though I wasn't supposed to look I did and what I saw was two men carrying out a stretcher and grandpa standing on the front porch and that night the fog rolled in and I was left

my breath out of sync
with the waves


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