Summer 1883

I can’t write good.

Emma writes for me.

Some days I am low down sad. A dog chewing his rope to catch a rabbit at field.

Dad is dead 10 summers, feels a hundred moons. Mom is dead but a few.

I want to get a dollar and spend my pennies up. The man with yhe peeling paper and cigar ash on the floor had nothing for me.

One lady offers me food and bed – all I do is lay on my bed. I do what they say. They stay nice that way.

This is so I can remember

One day

One of these wealthy men will take me away.

I don’t want to forget how the curl of mama’
s hair twirled round like steam rising from the coffee.

I won’t forget bare splintered floors when I have rugs.