Baby Sally’s death had been an accident too, but what difference did that make? She saw the toddler lying on the kitchen table. A neighbor woman draped a black cloth over her to keep off flies. Overcome by the sight, Ma doubled over and the woman helped her away and into bed. Alone with Sally, Effie lifted a corner of the cloth, and ducked beneath. She was ten, so much older than Sally. She pressed a hand over Sally’s tummy where her Sunday dress was wrinkled, fussed with her golden ringlets, counted her tiny perfect toes.
“I’m sorry,” she wept. And then, “I want to go with you.”
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