Murmuration T.M. Williams (bio) She left a little at a time. The way the starlings do, lifting from a line off into nowhere, one by one until they're gone completely. First was the index finger on her right hand. She was numb from sugar, so she didn't notice when it started to cook. That smell that mixed with the mustard greens told her. Like hog meat. And later the scent [End Page 9] of gangrene, warm black rot, til the doctor took it down to the bottom knuckle. "Maybe they can get you a fake one to put on it, Avalyn," her sister Connie had said, staring at the fat round piece. It was smooth and alert, like it might push through and grow itself again. "Wonder what they'd latch it on with?" Her children banned her from cooking after that, said they didn't want her anywhere near a stove. Cooking was all she had. She told them that. She cried. And she argued with them and cussed them too, but the three banded together and were firm. It was sandwiches or whatever Bev, her oldest and her only girl, fed her from then on. Barbeque chips in a big plastic bowl. Ham and cheese on Bunny bread on a paper plate. A Hungry Man in its heat-warped black tray with mashed potatoes still cold in the middle. Sometimes some kind of candy Mamaw wanted but wasn't supposed to have that would push her reading over three hundred and get her all worked up thinking about blindness and needles in her unfeeling feet. Whatever it was would be set on top of her oxygen machine. It was the one her father had breathed on, lungs like two rotten apples from all the coal dust he ate. When I came home in the summers I would visit her. We sat in the sun, her chimes going in the wind, our bodies held up by blue and pink fold-out chairs faded by light and rub. We looked out on the things that weren't there. The tree her husband had planted back when he was somebody she could love, cut down after it splintered in a storm. And the swimming pool that her son—my dad—had taken down after it sat empty two summers. Our chairs were on the lip of the deck, the wood reaching out in curved remembering. It was an easy way of being, an open-eyed meditation in the warmth near the edge with her there. "You glad to be back home?" she said, and I said, "Yeah." "You gonna make a doctor? Or you ain't decided yet?" [End Page 10] "No way. I'd work in the mines before I'd be a doctor or a lawyer," I said and smiled. It was a birthright to brave the bowels of the mountains, and I knew I could do it even if I never did. "Your daddy might could get you on." She winked and turned her pink tumbler to her lips. There were stories of women in the mines. The one I knew was of a woman who worked over at Rockhouse, the only female on the day shift. She took up with the bolt-machine man, who happened to be married to my cousin at the time. The men made crass jokes about the miner woman's calloused hands and the coal dust that caulked the lines in her skin. Walking up the back road with her little collie dog on a string was Jan, who lived five houses down. She stopped and put her hand on the top of the chain fence. "Hidee, Ava! How you a-doin, honey?" Jan was almost sickly thin and tanning-bed brown. Mamaw waved with her right hand, but just as quick as she had raised it she pulled it back down to her lap. Seventy-five years with that finger, two months without. I forget. She told me this later that evening when we were grabbing a hold of the sticks of orange dreamsicles. I watched her talk to Jan. Ms. Avalyn. You could tell she had been...