Viola was my grandmother’s older sister. She died in 1933 at age 7. She got sick, and she did not have antibiotics. My grandmother’s father came into her room in the middle of the night to tell her.

I ask my grandmother if she was sad when Viola died.

She says, “My mother.” She stops. Read more memoir at Spry Lit

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Mornings Always Made Us Better

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Something I Might Say