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B I L L B R O W N Mounding Potatoes The phone call at 2 a.m. was my sister saying that you had died in the emergency room but had been shocked to life so that your pulse stabilized and you told the doctor you remembered the whole event, heart stopping and the sharp electric trip back. He said that such a memory wasn’t likely. But you stuck to your story even during the ambulance ride to the medical center where magical balloons sailed their timely voyage through your blood to stretch the vessels which clogged your heart. Mother, today you smile at my concern, knowing what death is like. At eighty-two, you heard no voices from beyond, no angelic music fluttering a heavenly welcome. Your faith was stuck in the strength of this world as the frantic voiced commands 210 ❚ The 1990s and the laying on of fire kept you in life’s routine. Two weeks later, I marvel to watch your strong hands mound young plants in my garden, dreaming the while of new potatoes with parsley, resurrected from this simple ground. The 1990s ❚ 211 ...

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