Unveiling the Fragile Truths Hidden Within Amanda Ashworth’s Paper Shell
When I was very young, Mama took on a small job assembling plastic fishing worms for a local bait company. The bodies came in one box, the ribbon tails in another. She’d melt the end of a tail with a taper candle and press it to the body until it sealed. Purple, green, gold, glittering. I remember the smell of warm plastic and the way her hands moved like they’d always known how. The same hands that cracked pecans. That stirred the filling for her pies.
When hospice came, Mama didn’t want an aide. “Just another person up in my house,” she said. But she agreed to meet her once.
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