I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Lindsay Fitzgerald likes to stop and read the messages written in the sidewalk cement. She has new fiction in the anthology Women on the Edge: Writing from Los Angeles, forthcoming in October 2005.
My mother’s call came on a white December morning. I had forgotten to expect it. There was a time when I’d waited for it daily: the news that my father’s emphysema had finished him. He’d been given three to six months, and it was now five years after the prognosis. I was mystified by his survival.