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IN LOCO PARENflS/ THE SUMMER AFTER my mother died, my aunt Flora moved in with her wig. It was bright orange, perfectly sculpted into a haylike, immovable flip. Early on I told a friend's mother that my Aunt Flo wore a wig that made her look like Bozo. I never found out how this got back to my aunt, but she wasn't impressed with my comparison, and said, "Il faut cultiver notre jardin," throwing her head back and pointing her nose in the air like some supreme authority. She always used phrases nobody understood. "Erin go bragh," Aunt Flo would say in response to a question she didn't know the answer to. master. (We were non-practicing Jews with no connection to Ireland.) I didn't know she was saying, "Ireland forever," but I appreciated the way her r's so smoothly rolled off her tongue, a trick I myself had failed to "Did you always wear an orange wig?" I asked Aunt Flo one night when she was placing it on the styrofoam head where it slept. "It's not an orange wig, Lucinda," Aunt Flo said, gently patting the fake hair as if it were a pet or a child.
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Oct 5, 1998
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