Her lips are red, too red. Her skirt, too tight. She's different from the other mothers and I'm old enough to know different is bad so I tell my new friend, "No, my mother's dead."
That shuts her up. Problem solved. No one likes to talk about dead mothers.
My reflection in the window is smiling back at me as the snow dumps from the sky and I'm sure it's God's work. I wished for a snowstorm and a snowstorm arrives. I'll never doubt his existence again.[view whole blog post ]
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