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Baby Wynona’s strapped to my chest with a Moby we got from our Head Start nurse, but then she squirms one stubby arm free and reaches for the butterfly. “Red,” she says. “God, so perfectly red. Like a fire engine.” We’re at the Franklin Park Conservatory. Mike, my manager at the convenience store by the university, is sweet on me, so he bought the ticket. … READ MORE

With Baby Wynona | The Adroit Journal

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