Leonie looks at Mam’s cooling body and thinks about what living in the Mississippi countryside has shown her. Ward uses alliteration and personification to bring the scene to life, as Leonie thinks about the painful lessons her childhood taught her:
Growing up out here in the country taught me things. Taught me that after the first fat flush of life, time eats away at things: it rusts machinery, it matures animals to become hairless and featherless, and it withers plants [...] since Mama got sick, I learned pain can do that too. Can eat a person until there’s nothing but bone and skin and a thin layer of blood left.
The alliteration in “first fat flush” both slows the sentence down and stretches the image within it. The repeated /f/ sound creates a soft puff of air that matches the swollen feeling of the phrase. The way that the sentence lingers invokes the fertility and richness of the first “flush” of life. The moment feels exaggerated and swollen, as though the words themselves are "fat" and "flush." This makes the contrast with the decay and damage that appear immediately after the "flush" feel sharper. Living in the country taught Leonie that no matter how much abundance life begins with, nothing will ever stay that way. Rot eventually always sets in.
Ward also personifies the forces of time and pain in this passage. Instead of being benign unthinking natural forces, they become malicious entities that deliberately consume and wear away. Leonie does not see her mother’s body as simply breaking down naturally now that Mam is dead. She sees it as having been being worn away throughout her life by powers outside of her control. Mam becomes less and less visible the sicker she gets, literally fading away as the pain and the passage of time “eat” away at her. The pain strips her down, and Leonie is forced to watch the process without being able to stop it.