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By Lori Williams He waded home through an undertow of barley and hops, each footfall on the steps in synchrony with my palpitations and the sun was rising, daring the new day friends call tomorrow, to hold promise; then the lock twitched and clinked for so long that the bins at the corner market filled -- potatoes, pearl onions, plums, plunked into their wooden stalls, keeping time with his inept attempts to fit key to hole. The funeral was unplanned in my dash from bed to door; the suit I'd have to buy put back on the rack, the phone kept on its cradle, my heart still heavy, but whole. So, I opened the door, led my son to bed. In the time it took to traverse a three room apartment, I relived every night of tucking in and making plans. I might have suffocated, but my mouth hung open to the air praying through the fog of sixteen year old beer breath -- give me back my boy. |
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Document last modified on: 08/19/2003