by Debra Monroe
Miss Staat, her kilt skirt, her beige purse. Her eyes, close up. There, I thought, in the hazel and gold. When I was little, my dad who was lonely would take me on walks in the woods. “What does this say to you?” he’d ask, pointing at a rock. I never got what I wanted. Miss Staat’s eyes said that. Besides, because she told me what to do, I didn’t. I moved to Eau Claire and got a job.
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