The Spaces Between Your Fingers

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Written at Inglis.  Dec. 2013.

This is NOT a love story.  If it was I wouldn’t bother reading it, and neither should you.  I got my love of reading from my mother, Beatrice.  She always had a book in her lap…or, sometimes, a whole stack of them piled beneath her chin.  She had this astonishing ability to sniff out a used book store, no matter where she was, long before anyone had ever heard of Google.  Adventure and detective stories – those were her favorites (like me) – but never love stories.

I remember one night, when I was a little older, I borrowed one of her dresses without asking.  I went out to a cabaret and danced all night long…and damn, I looked good (if I don’t say so myself)!  I thought I’d gotten away with it, too, until she came in my room a few weeks later, holding a photograph I’d taken that night (and stupidly left out for her to find).  She shook her head and said (as always): “You crazy like your father.”

Greetings from a Day with My Mother

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