Writing has saved my life on more than one occasion, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
I was the biographer of one woman, but I was also writing my own life.
Mother be forgotten, buffalo meat cut to strips to dry. The sun.
When my youngest son died by his own hand, my life shattered, and my faith crumbled.
Because our religion always marked us as oddities—the people who didn’t believe in doctors—my mother cringed at anything she thought was not socially normal.
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