My mother once told me as a child that you can tell who is coming by the mere sound of their footsteps. I remember looking at her incredulously, my short curls bouncing in agreement with my dissent. Yet, upon her departure, I heard in her footsteps the essence of Mom. Ever since, I would know who was approaching down the hall of our home without prior visual identification.And the footsteps I heard at the entrance of the bookstore carried the vague echo of a memory that promised dread.
-Gina Marinello-Sweeney
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