Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal

     There are ten of us. We span fourteen years and four states, us grandchildren. But growing up, there were the main seven—the youngest kids hadn’t been born, or if they had, they weren’t old enough to be with us. 

     My grandmother held court in Keenwick, Delaware, all summer—every summer.   
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Today I let myself believe in ghosts. 

I woke to the eerie softness of snowfall and a dull grey light pouring through the bedroom window. It reminded me of rain and of my mother. Rain always makes me think of my mother. She used to say it’s important to learn one new thing every day. Today I learned that winter is not an ideal time for growing flowers. The wilting lilies on my windowsill glanced tiredly at me. Their pink splattered petals shrink and die because I chose to plant them on a whim without doing research on the right time and place to successfully grow Stargazers. The lilies were only the first sign of death roaming the rooms of my mother’s house. 

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