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Sara Read Photo by Jay Bock F IC T IO N The man we called Great-Uncle Kimmy lived three-quarters of his life alone in a cabin perched on a mountainside so steep that if you stepped wrong in anger or in drink you’d wind up in the creek bed deep at the bottom of the holler. There lay the remains (he said) of a Model A Ford, a hundred-year-old still, and two commercial-grade highway lawn mowers. If you wound up down there, you’d never be found, but it wouldn’t matter because you’d be dead. No one and nothing (he said) ever went down into the bottom of that holler besides the things meant to by nature, and nothing not meant to go there by nature ever came out. e m Th an we called Great-Uncle Kimmy was also the dieff rence between what became of me and what became of Kate, forget what an- y body else says. In October, a month ae ft r I turned fie ft en, my grandmother dragged me by the shirt from the juvenile courthouse. I only ever called my grandmother “Grandmother,” and not because she was kindly and lavender-smelling. She was a
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Apr 10, 2018
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