I take my place beside her.
Her large mountain lake painting
seems to cover the wall opposite, above the TV.
Her voice is soft, with a lot of tongue slipping between her lips.
Her dark, bright eyes, mirrored in all three daughters,
glisten as I ask and listen.
She loves to tell. She grows younger in telling
about blizzards, sod houses, wagons fording the river,
until we are called to the long table in the narrow room.
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