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A darling, and: Historical Record, and: Promises in the attic, and: The shards, blooming,

A darling, and: Historical Record, and: Promises in the attic, and: The shards, blooming, Tara Westmor A darling When my sisters found the deer’s body in our backyard, wide-eyed and pointing at the carcass (a darling, my sisters said), I knew I had seen a picture of the darling in my mother’s lap, tearing herself out of a picture book. I reached for the deer’s head but my sisters tsked and scolded, and ran home in fits of shrieks. I thought of the dead leaf smell of autumn, the cool breath of my mother when she read out loud in the evening, windows left open, in a bedroom with three girls. My sisters and I peered over her shoulder to see the last picture of a deer. When I said please, my mother began the story again. I was feverish, my mother held my head in her lap and combed my hair with her fingers. The fine minutes severed into this ephemera: a mother, her hands, pure and divine and healing. When I would fake illness, and put my head in her lap she would shoo me away. I dug at the earth with my tree branch I did not see the buzzards drag the darling, eat at her coat. I pulled at http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

A darling, and: Historical Record, and: Promises in the attic, and: The shards, blooming,

Prairie Schooner , Volume 93 (3) – Dec 21, 2019

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X

Abstract

Tara Westmor A darling When my sisters found the deer’s body in our backyard, wide-eyed and pointing at the carcass (a darling, my sisters said), I knew I had seen a picture of the darling in my mother’s lap, tearing herself out of a picture book. I reached for the deer’s head but my sisters tsked and scolded, and ran home in fits of shrieks. I thought of the dead leaf smell of autumn, the cool breath of my mother when she read out loud in the evening, windows left open, in a bedroom with three girls. My sisters and I peered over her shoulder to see the last picture of a deer. When I said please, my mother began the story again. I was feverish, my mother held my head in her lap and combed my hair with her fingers. The fine minutes severed into this ephemera: a mother, her hands, pure and divine and healing. When I would fake illness, and put my head in her lap she would shoo me away. I dug at the earth with my tree branch I did not see the buzzards drag the darling, eat at her coat. I pulled at

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Dec 21, 2019

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