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Weekly Contest #100
My mother used to sing when she cooked. Her gentle voice would fill our home as she swayed to the song. Her food was always terrible, but I’d eat a thousand more of her meals just to hear her again. She would smile as she set the plates down, brush the hair out of my eyes and sit opposite me. I longed for her singing in this silence, the cold air pushed through the trees surrounding us, the grass I sat on was damp from the rain the night before, I laid my head back against the bark of the tree I lent against and began to hum, desperate to c...
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