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Beloved Auntie Ann They say it is impossible, but I remember when I walked. Eating raw hotdogs off the floor, I looked up and saw Auntie Ann. Our last relative from England, she was thin, tall and very straight. Standing beside our torn screen door, dressed in gray with lace trim and rings. She was screaming at my Grandma, saying she should get rid of me, not bother with the harlot's trash, send me off to some orphanage. "This is a bloody heathen land, you don't need to be married here". Grandma picked me up held me tight, told Auntie Ann to go to hell, she liked my looks and I'd do fine, I was to be her special prize. Growing fast active tall and straight, I became Auntie Ann's pet lamb. The lady matron of our street, proudly she could not read or write. We laid her on a hilltop high, the last link to our English past.
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