I was a baby, after all, and so could not have resisted her, but her strength failed her again and again at the crucial moment. She could have pried it from my fingers easily. She said that she tried taking it from me when I took my bottle, but that I held it clutched tight in my hand. She said that I carried it with me everywhere and sucked and sucked on it, wouldn’t let it out even to sleep. She had tried to break me of it when I was one and then again when I was two, but I wouldn’t. Once, my mother told me that when I was very little, I wouldn’t give up my pacifier. Or, I guess, my family was full of stories, but they didn’t share them, or if they did, the stories came with so high a price that we often didn’t speak for days after divulging them. There’s this idea that Southern families are full of stories, but mine wasn’t. My mother didn’t share much of herself with anyone.
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