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140 A Face to Meet the Faces Sarah Bernhardt Plays Hamlet Meghan Brinson I. When I was 17, my father died. I came home from Europe to a clean house full of my relatives. My cousin mowed the weeds and trimmed the hedges. My grandmother baked bread and boiled potatoes for salad. My mother in black, leaning on my uncle’s arm. Her hair shorter than I remember, hiding from me behind my uncle’s square of blue and green silk. II. The dirt fell into the grave one handful at a time. The birds sang limericks in the willows, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, as if my father lying in the earth was erotic, an embrace. Relatives came with their green bowls molded like cut glass: casserole, Jello salad, fried chicken, deviled eggs, baked and sliced ham, barbecue, yeast rolls, as if there was a hole to fill handful by handful. The smell of carnations. 141 Fifteen Easy Minutes III. In the greenhouse, back by the pecan tree, my high school friend Leon and I touched. “Your mother is worried about you,” he said, unhooking my bra. His mouth was sweet, tasted like lime Jello. Inside me there is a hole that cannot be filled. The smell of lilies, touch of rue. Here my father rode me on his back, he threw me into this air, he is not here to catch me. IV. The creek smells sweet, like blueberries. Bugs dimple its surface, skim across light-hearted. The afternoon starts to darken, to get cold. The lightning bugs sing elegies to their dying race, pulse of lights. In between my toes, something wriggles through the sandy bottom of the spring bed that runs out to meet the creek snaking through our farm. V. The night finds us on the sandbar, my favorite spot, cicada song. Leon puts his head in my lap. By the time this story ends, we will all be dead. ...

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