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Mica

By Nancy Crisafulli

The sky and the swing set are the same lonely grey, the only color in our empty backyard.

My fingertips tingle from picking out pieces of silver-gold mica that glitter in the cold, hard ground. Some days I peel back the smooth, glassy layers and put them in a circle, like a necklace. Today it’s too chilly so I slide some in my pocket. Jean and Joan are older than me and say mica’s not a real jewel, but I don’t care. It’s sparkly and reminds me of the diamonds in their matching Halloween costumes. I was Lamb Chops this year. Only twins get to be princesses.

About the Author

Nancy Crisafulli received her BA in English Literature from the University of Maryland and spent the next forty years in the field of instructional design in and around Washington, DC. She did most of that writing in a corporate office. Her other writing has been hidden in her spare bedroom and recently asked to move out. This is her first national publication. When she isn’t writing, Nancy is probably out walking or on the co-ed softball field with her husband.

 

 

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