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Weekly Contest #290
There was a certain delicacy to the way that my mother cut fruit. I would sit quietly in the kitchen, watching her make clean cuts along the grain, paying close attention the way she measured the length of the fruit with her fingers. The way she held the knife was the most affectionate of it all. It was as if it was carved to fit her hand, pressing romantically against her weathered palm. Once a broken machine, my mother was complete when holding her adorned kitchen knife.On occasion, I would be her gracious subject instead of the fruit."Sta...
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