Twelve-year-old Bonnie wraps her sweater around seventy-year-old Elsa, shrunken with age.
“I’ve outgrown it. It’s yours now, Grandma. A hand-me-up.”
Two-year-old Grace raises pudgy palms to thirty-year-old Bonnie.
“Wanna fly, Mama! Hand me up!”
Ninety-year-old Grace, three generations of family at her bedside, breathes her last.
“I’m ready, Lord. Hand me up.”
Ann S. Epstein writes novels, stories, and memoir and is herself as short and provocative as microfiction.
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