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five-year-old trella thinks calico might smell like coffee beans but mama’s dress hanging in the hidden closet just smells like mothballs and the bitter tang of disappointment. // papa tried to hold her hand at the funeral but she could not stand his leather touch. pin and needles in her fingers and eyes and she still could not cry. // pale palette trella on the swings singing to herself because nobody will listen. // cressa wearing her dirty fleece jacket in 90 degree swelter. when people aren’t looking she shows trella her lovely bruises. ❁