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Margaret
Chula
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Wisps of Fog
A Tanka Series on her birthday she asks me to help her write her obituary wisps of fog shroud the maple leaves winter afternoon Mother and I sort through her jewelry box– accepting baubles just for their stories April Fool's Day we move our mother into assisted living saying good-bye to her battered golf clubs the hollow stems of summer daylilies pull out with ease Mother has fallen again and broken her femur final move into a nursing home I take home the dregs of her perfumes–none of them smell like her cleaning out Mother's lingerie drawer the tears in her stockings sewn up so tightly– all my unanswered questions
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