Now she is nearly ninety, her eyes still blue as birds, and still she is the greatest fan of my misspelled, wandering words. Would I weave them with such joy now if she had sighed, “just go and play?” If she had ever been too busy? If she’d thrown my words away? As it is, beware of saying you are interested in verse or you’ll see my mother smiling as she opens up her purse.
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