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LEAH'S APRON Her eastern window fogs with April frost, obscures the cabin high across the valley where Nathan lives alone, no smoke rising yet, no tall man in the barnlot tending pigs. Leah rubs the pane with her apron's calico, blinks back as the sun rises over Kirby Cove lighting his roof and yard, remembers springs when Nathan came to call, a bunch of early violets in his clumsy hand, a ring he fashioned out of horseshoe nails, amber honey from his hillside hives—small gifts made large with halting words, a sober hand raised just as he turned to leave. But never could he say the right words though she waited, patient, while five springs of violets faded. She turns to face the room, folding her apron thick to lift brown hoecake from the fire's edge. Leah smooths her apron with long strokes, breaks bread, and sits down by the window to begin another day. —Bettie Sellers 110 ...

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