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on hot, muggy summer days,
she would cut a hole in the air,
loosen the bobby pins,
and shake her head
back and forth
and forth and back,
her hair spilling out
as though trying to escape
to somewhere,

she’d sit in the afghan covered chair,
sighing as she
hit the chair with a
plump and a grunt.
she put a hairbrush in one hand
of the grandchild,
and a dime in the grandchild’s
other hand,
turned herself around
and smiled
in keen anticipation.


Today marks the one quarter mark of my 100 stories in 100 days. I appreciate y’all reading along, and if you’d like to get them delivered to your e-mailbox, just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange strip across the top of the screen, enter your email address, and press the submit button. It’s absolutely free, costing only about 3 minutes of your time.