“One is, Ginger won a prize for her jingle! Not Mrs. Webley, but she did win a mixer. She was so proud when she told us at dinner—she took off her apron to make the announcement. My father and I clapped, and then my father whistled between his teeth, which got the dogs fired up, and they had to be told to lie back down, and then everybody started laughing. It was one of those rare moments when I thought, Why can’t it always be like this? And something in me rose up and floated over the kitchen t...able, taking a kind of photograph to try to preserve everything: the three of us sitting there; the smell of dinner; the low slant of late afternoon sun coming through the window to make a patch of light on the floor; dust motes spinning like a million ballerinas. I want to remember that Ginger’s grin was lopsided, that the sternness in my father’s face fell away, that three freckles were in a line on my left hand, that the dogs lay nose to nose, like book-ends—just every single thing from this one moment.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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