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Fourth Down, Fourth Quarter
When she missed her brother most she wore his clothing: corduroys, cotton shirt, suspenders, a flat cap tipped slightly atop her head. None of it helped, save for the smell of his cigarette smoke still trapped within the fibers: the hint of burning leaves and wilderness, of after shave and sweat. Once, on the worst day, she fit herself into his high school football uniform. It engulfed her, a tackle she could not break. When her mother walked into his room to find her there she gasped. Apologized. Tried to avert her eyes. But Cynthia Schultz begged her mother to look. Her mother did. You, her mother said, are nearly him. She reached for the Brownie, posing her daughter the way she would her son: hands on hips, a gaze far removed from the scene. The camera clicked. They preserved what they could. Nobody asked anyone to smile. Words by BJ Hollars. Audio narration by Jan Larson. Audio recording by Scott Morfitt. |