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Thirty years after you made her I washed the Raggedy Ann. I'm a formalist, too. I like the boundaries out where I can see them, but not so far they can't be reached.
I washed her clothes. I pressed her hand-laced petticoats and, I confess, I let my fingers wait on the dotted dress where you had sewn a row of phlox.
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I imagine Grandpa smiled, called it women's work as he watched you net and whip through the afternoon. He approved each stitch, knew blues you chose by the color of his eyes --
he left me that: the expectation of someone knowing my work as it matters, while you showed me how to do it, how to get it fixed. |