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2013-07-17 - 3:41 p.m.

poplars, eragny

you can crush the tears into your eyes with the heels of your hands, and you can imagine that the poster in the hospital kitchen looks out on a real-life summer garden.

at first, we were made to understand that my father might die, and then we thought he would survive as a quiet gentle ghost. he could not recall my mother's name, and he didn't know how much money it would be if you had seven quarters. but today, he took a morning stroll through the backyard and cooked some eggs for breakfast. he checked the messages on his blackberry and worked through some files from the office.

i don't have anything else to say, right here in the middle of this story. but my dad is doing well, sure and safe as houses.

* * *

reading: ventriloquism, by cat valente.
listening to: thelonius monk.
working on: submitting this damn abstract
in the garden: my mom's Lunaria is dropping seeds from its silver coins.

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