Plain Jane

Life Along The River

Someone once told me angels sang in heaven. The tall man with the black book clasped to his chest greeted us every Sunday. He talked of judgment and error and sin. He talked of angels. I sang in the choir but no one told me I was an angel. They informed me that I was plain as Jane, whoever she was. I imagined someone windswept with a rugged and ruddy face; someone that lived in the grasses and rolling hills of the Dakotas, where pines give way to prairie. I imagined she had short hair and wore a worn felt hat, cowboy like and a long duster coat. Or maybe she had one long single braid down her back, not thick and blond but thin and mousy brown, dusty. Her brow was sweaty and caked with dirt. She rode most often on horses but sometimes in pickup trucks. This, I…

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