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Showing posts from November, 2015

Pot Pies. Waffles with Jam.

She never quite understood her name , while she secretly loved its sound.  Speculated our mother had a dream in which the syllables  fell from a basket  in a scrabble  to   compose  the odd, monkey moniker that stuck.  Only  sister  joined by blood, first friend or pest, and sharer of stories,  witness to  bats  swooping night's swimming pool.  Always there.  With her  loose baby teeth,  grinning.  Hair akimbo as I tugged  and tucked my  cowlicks  under hard, spiky headbands.  T rick or treat tag-along,  sucking on Sweet Tarts,  three TV shows  minimum in the afternoon  as dusk sunk  Dark Shadows.  Gilligan's Island.   Bewitched .  Pot pies for dinner  or sometimes even the coveted poor girls'  waffles, soft,  with red,  seed-pitted jam.