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My mother's house was white with black shutters and a peeling barn door. It faced a path that once must have been a street. Someone had shoveled the path, piling the snow on the sides so it was waist high. I walked to the door, carrying my blue duffel bag. A battered snow shovel was leaning against one of the white columns on the front porch. |
Uncle Roger File 3: Terminals by Judy Malloy