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Straw Hat

From the August/September 1993 Print Edition

The sun filters through the filigree and sprinkles dot lights upon my face as I draw musky breath: each draught, humid hay, salty, delicious. This straw hat was Dad’s. I had forgotten until I sensed his smell, lifted it, and saw his sweat mark upon the band. The scorching sun fed desperation and . . . . Continue Reading »