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December 28, 2010
I remember this little ballerina, dressed in all black. She looked like a tiny shadow against the bright yellow and green in that dandelion-filled field. Her dance was mesmerizing, a spinning and twisting and complicated dance that grown women would have trouble performing.

Her mother was braced against a tree, taking puffs of cigarettes and watching with the same sort of smile that god wore when he watched his first angel take flight.

"Did you teach her that?" I asked.

"Hell no, darlin'. I ain't got the talent. That's all her. That's all my angel."