DIGGING Linnea Lieth I woke to my father’s quiet voice and ran to the front porch, almost hitting her in the clumsy swing of the glass storm door. She lay motionless in the morning chill, a perfect fur crescent on the concrete just before the doorway. That hole took my father a long time to dig and I watched from the kitchen window as the man who had scolded me for crying over fights with my mother, broken toys and bullies hunched his strong shoulders and paused, laying the shovel down on the cold red clay to wipe his eyes.

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