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129 Tom Wonders: Is This Sentence for Me or for Her? —Fairbanks, Alaska, September 1907 Caribou cure on the rack, hang from bound ankles. I cut, pull skin from flesh, gut, and wait. Reread the note from the doctor, eat a handful of sour cranberries. Tomorrow, I’ll cut roasts, ribs, and stew meat, pull the sled into town. A new sign in the window: fresh meat. I’ll buy whiskey, wait, pen a letter to my mother. I have no right to steal hope, so I’ll begin, Mother, when you recover. Melting away, she must know. I measure my words. The doctor’s sentence determines my slant. Before I can remember, she held me, whispering softly. Do I slight her by leaving out words, leaving in chance? Tomorrow she leaves. My parting gift, a lie. September, the last steamers race the ice. She’ll write from the hospital, tell me she’s fine, slight pain 130 at the incision, fatigue. She’ll tell me to collect her rents, to give that bastard debtor Condon hell. In this town, no secret is slight enough to hide through the winter. Ice fog whispers, seeps in at corners, repeats each sentence it overhears. I still begin, Mother, when you recover, knowing it’s a pitted gift, like the nuggets she’ll carry out with her, something to prove she was once here, a small burden to carry in her pocket as she steams away. ...

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