His fingernails hold the edge of the newspaper,
long nail beds with tiny ridges, neatly trimmed.
They are the fingernails I remember on his mother,
holding her morning banana
as she sliced it into a bowl of milk.
His fingernails hold the edge of the newspaper,
long nail beds with tiny ridges, neatly trimmed.
They are the fingernails I remember on his mother,
holding her morning banana
as she sliced it into a bowl of milk.
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