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Weekly Contest #311
Stumbling with embarrassing frequency, I followed behind my mother, eyes down, following her polished Sunday shoes. She decided our path, her shoes helping me discern the tripping hazards ahead. It was 1966, and my six-year-old stick arms and legs lacked the coordination that seemed natural to other people. Dressed in a short-sleeved fitted light yellow shift, pocketbook swinging in the crook of her left arm, and a beige brimmed cloche hat tilted slightly to the left, she walked somberly and purposefully, with the tin collection can in one h...
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