If time is truly a fixed and linear construct (marching from one beginning or another towards each ruled end, rank-and-filed across calendar pages and appointment books and chronological memos stuck to the refrigerator door), then how is this: that just now, in this still room, your mother’s slow slip into oblivion is measured instead by the ebb and flow of a pulsation softly spherical; something breathily more round and pliant than you could ever imagine
Jean K. Dowdy, a displaced Appalachian horticulturalist who lives, works, and gardens in the relative wilds of northeast Florida. Her publications include the occasional gardening/food column in local periodicals, a contribution to Oberon Poetry Magazine, and a couple of flash pieces featured on John Dufresne's "Flashpoints" website.
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