Visitor My ancient aunt visited my grandmother each year. She was a mystery of time, recipes and lavender, and the oven worked hard when she arrived. The skin on the back of her hands was so thin that the veins appeared like tangled threads, and she moved so quickly they seemed to unravel. One morning, while watching her speckle lamingtons, I asked if she remembered being young. She looked out the window and her smile answered my question. Perhaps I thought she had been conjured by time into a family fixture and given mobility at Christmas to…
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