A journal of living with my 98 year old grandmother, day in and day out, her ramblings, my rants.
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Sunday, August 7, 2011
The morning after
After Moma cleaned off the deck in her gown, housecoat, and Sunday-go-to-meeting shoes, she showed up at breakfast the next morning like this. I have learned not to even ask. She lives in a galaxy far, far away.
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