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Godmother Death by Jane Yolen Y ou think you know this story. You do not. You think it comes from Ireland, from Norway, from Spain. It does not. You have heard it in Hebrew, in Swedish, in german. You have read it in French, in Italian, in Greek. It is not a story, though many mouths have made it that way. It is true. How do I know? Death, herself told me. She told me in that whispery voice she saves for special tellings. She brushed her thick black hair away from that white forehead, and told me. I have no reason to disbelieve her. Death does not know how to lie. She has no need to. It happened this way, only imagine it in Death's own soft breeze of a voice. Imagine she is standing over your right shoulder speaking this true story in your ear. You do not turn to look at her. I would |
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