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69 Ring Hand The nail of the thumb I dropped the stew pot on purpled, died and, years ago, grew back, awkward now, twisted. This son of mine, my Jacob, was just a toddling boy the day I lost hold. I was readying myself to prepare the meal, expecting Joe back from the butcher, when Sally Turner came, instead, supposedly to comfort me. Joe is tall and lean and skilled at laying brick. A man like him would fetch a good price in Virginia. Had my thumb healed correctly? My hand would bear no mark, but Joe would still be slaving. Jacob is dreaming of marriage. He covers his stained pallet every morning, but I know. He’ll be gone in a blink of years. Still, I can remember nursing him, and I can remember, because he could not be kept away, Joe sitting by me. I’d let him hold my hand, kiss the palm and every finger. I’d smile a wife’s smile when he confessed how he loved me and to prove it sucked my thumb into his mouth and held it, our communion, against his lips and teeth and tongue. ...

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