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Column: The freckled hands
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She just came to mind, tripping through the years that lay between now and the time we buried her so long ago. Hers was a humble life spent in a mountain house that leaned, literally, toward ramshackle with a tin roof that was sturdy, but rusting. In their earlier years together, it had been simpler but they had tacked on a bathroom, putting outhouse days behind them, and the modest kitchen was on the front of the house framed by a porch that was welcoming yet heaving with the exhaustion of its years.

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