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Tag Archives: Christina Thatcher
Horticulture was her second love. Kaya discovered it just before she died, long after she’d been widowed. Her first plot was sold off: “He won’t mind if I break up some new dirt. He loved to travel too.” She insisted … Continue reading
August pushed against her until she dripped. It stuck her sweat to synthetic lace and made her dream of the bayou. She was a swamp-treader as a girl, caught crawdads by hand and crammed them deep into her pockets. Sometimes, … Continue reading
She was eating halloumi the last time I saw her. I remember because I used to think halloumi was a type of fish, and so did she. She claimed the block of spongy cheese hit her tongue like tuna – … Continue reading
She knew that at this moment she would always have dry feet. Bathmats would be used properly and her toes would never touch cold, wet tiles again. She knew there’d be no more dragging her body up and down the … Continue reading
He sold antique keys and odd door handles from a worn wooden table in La Rochelle. He had no children—he was sterile, and he had no wife—she’d left him. I’m going on the boat, she’d said, her bags slumped down … Continue reading