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In Her Small Granite House Bobbi Sinha-Morey She walks only at night through fog or dreams, a quiet air of propriety all about her. To her, the sky is bluer than a children’s book, and order is soothing, like a drug or sweet tea. Each small granite house in her neighborhood boasts its carved angel or garden gnome. All she has is an American flag, and she rarely goes outside of her home, peering from behind the plain fabric of her curtains at other people’s windows. She was wiser as a child, not so fearful as she is now, and when she was little she’d hold her only doll so close; it had deep brown haunted eyes, dark blonde hair down to its shoulders, and she’d wondered what went wrong as she’d gotten older. Her few relatives come see her by the gravelly path, set down like a long black stone in a plain old brooch. And it is strange how the one thing their fingers long to touch is not a lemon on her tree, so yellow and ripe, but the one fallen to the grass, half lost, or the lone dandelion, gone to seed. Her adult children are

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2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  

Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College

2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  

Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College

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