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Robyn L. Murphy fiction Mom told me about the diagnosis when we were sitting on a beach in North Carolina. My wife, Helen, had just left to take the puppy for one last run, and I realized that her convenient departure had been prearranged by the way she glanced back at us, biting her lower lip that way she always does when she's worried. Photograph by John Siebert WINTER 2007 / THE MISSOuRI REvIEW 107 It was the end of a good vacation--a week of intentionally forgetting about all the work piling up back at home and concentrating on the immediacy of mild sunburn. By then we'd figured out a favorite beach to go to and then a favorite spot to put our blanket to get just the right amount of wind to keep away the flies but not blow away the wax paper that our lunch sandwiches had been wrapped in. It was late, and most of the families had packed up their whining broods and gone home, leaving just a few people like us who were willing to endure the increasing nip to the wind in exchange for a good sunset view and an easing of
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Jan 3, 2007
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