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I wrote this awhile ago for Flash Fiction 55 (a story in 55 words). This one, however is not fiction.
The Nice Stranger
She sits now and smiles.
Sings too.
Doesn't know to who or why.
She even knows my name.
Asks me the same questions,
over and over again.
It's ok though. I answer,
over and over again.
She's my child now, as I was hers.
Mom has Alzheimers.
Peace