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Purple

She wore a purple apron every day.

The blues come and go like summer showers.

They roll down my nose and into the tissue below. And the reds fade in and out. Girls with cheeks burning like embers stick around only when I’m at my lowest. People love to see me burn, but purple—when fire and frigid combine—it’s permanent. Mom was hot and cold at once. She wore a purple apron every day. Years later I feel her presence by the stove and I know I always will.


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