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You squint at me as though you are only properly seeing me now for the first time. I scour your room which is the palest of blues.
The sky. The grass. Blue. Green. Cloud country. Expansive. Overwhelming. So blue. So green. Screams. Mom. Toddler. Arm. Extends. Mouth. Open. Bees. Fill.
The wind blows cold and lonely off the prairie at night, hurtling along at ground level, then rising up, washing over the house.
He was beautiful if you knew him, and could be a real bastard when he wanted to, and a lot of times when he didn’t.
We come into this as helpless faucets of overflowing salt ducts, eager and scampering, exhausting profusely to make sense yet never availing, barely scratching.
This morning when Walter tumbled off a beribboned donkey halfway up the steep cobblestone path from the port to Fira he was embarrassed.
In the overgrown, ripening summer, four boys, elementary age, chase the day away. It is that magic hour, right after dinner, just before the dark comes and beds call.
The bar is dimly-lit yet I can still see his face laced with long, shoe-string tears.
She woke on the sand in the scorching daylight and tiptoed her fingers towards the gauze wrap of a woman dead beside her.