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My Mother, the Wind, and the Hand My mother told stories inside a windstorm, to flake our fears. Her words fell like the whip-cracked limbs that thumped between ebbs of ambiguous silence. She told of a shipwreck off the coast of Maine; when at eight years old, she found the hand of a sailor, washed up like a dying starfish. On the married finger was the white indent of ringlessness, and fourteen sea-widows fought to claim the starfish hand. My mother never knew who won its burial. In the morning, when the air is in inhale, and the old pines stand like stilled cadets, I search to find anything that may have shook loose in the dark's fury. I find an eggless nest, flattened like a footprint, and with closed eyes, feel around its edge, imagining straw as fingers. |
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