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the dance; by jenny laper; poetry
Mama,
the night you up and danced,
the first time in fifty-two years,
everyone laughed and grabbed cameras
to capture your sudden folly,
except Daddy,
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setting the heavens; by stasia weston; rising stars
Sayoko, 71, was once an accomplished cook, famous for her cakes. She was also skilled at knitting, turning skeins of wool into art. But life is much different now. Bert gazes at the woman he married in 1960. Her lank white hair hangs down over her face. She shuffles over and places a plastic spoon and fork on the table, then leans down and opens and closes the Velcro straps on her shoes. "She can do that for hours," he says, speaking of the exercise in Velcro. Sayoko's other favorite past time - endless moments trying to pull the flowers from the printed sheets in their bedroom - is just as futile. This is not the woman he married.
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the threads of tradition; by anne kelly-edmunds; columns
We are the weavers. Since the beginning of civilization, women have spun flax into thread, and then woven thread into cloth. Just so, we weave the strands of our lives into a tapestry to tell our stories.
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