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28 She Forgot You were ten, and death was a thief in the night under your bed. Each night you’d fall asleep fearing he’d slide out— silently, pale Dracula in fancy black cape— put a hand on your forehead. You’d never again see the goldfish in the pond, eat pickles, crack pistachios with your teeth, ride your bicycle through the alley where the boy you secretly loved, always passed. Grandmother said, if anyone should fear death sleeping under her bed, it should be she. If he comes, she cooed, point your finger to my room. I’m ready. Remember, if the mirror shatters, it’s only your reflection that’s lost. 29 But when she became a lump of flesh, washed and fed three times a day, Grandmother forgot her own words— clenched light and air, held fast to her sheets, to the bland taste of creamed chicken spooned into her mouth. Though angels danced, beckoned: Cross the creek. her flesh withdrew, shocked by icy cold. ...

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