The night Mamaw got sick, the rain fell and froze. I heard my father get out of bed and head to the vineyard to try and save the grapes. I heard the worry in his voice, frayed as old flannel. By morning the vines were trapped in ice. When the sun came out, our world looked like a bowl full of diamonds. My mother slipped Mamaw’s ring from her finger and tucked it in a scrap of velvet left over from a dress she’d made me. The grapes were buried under coffins of ice, as perfect as pearls.
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