Full at http://cheapmotelsandahotplate.org/2015/01/23/dreaming-dead/ My father was sleeping, curled up in the small chair next to the picture window. I thought this strange, because he never sat in that chair. It was my mother’s perch, from which she peered out at the street watching for neighbors and waiting every day for the mail truck to arrive. When she was old, she’d doze on and off during the day and evening. I’d look at her and think she looked tired, worn out from seventy years of the burdens women carry.
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