Angela L. Lindseth

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Mother sips tea in her garden. A consummate puppet master, she waves her checkbook, the knot on the apron strings binding her children. “Bring me some pretties.”
And we’re off, like geriatric six-year-olds seeking treasures for mommy in the family competition. The prize being the size of our annuity checks from the family foundation.
I cut around the rose hedge, thorns gouge divots from my arm, a man of sixty-three playing a child’s game he never won once.
Today’s game will be different.
I slip through the east gate into the old fields, a rule violation, but children cheat, because returning empty-handed and losing are the only sins.
Today, I will loot my childhood secrets and win.
The foundation stones of an old house rose above the grass in the field. My childhood sanctum where I hid the treasures of my youth. In the past, I had resisted the temptation…

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