An Inventory of What the Wind Left Behind
The hoe stood against the barn wall where it had stood every evening since the spring of 1928, its handle worn smooth in two places — one at the height of a man's right hand, one at the height of a man's left — by five years of grip and sweat and the particular friction of callused palms against hickory wood. The blade was rusted at the edges and sharpened to a thin crescent at the center, the...
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