I have some bad news, she writes, the hour late in the homeland and isn't that so often when we choose to rest? It's been a long day, it's been a long life, let me lie for just a while and see you again in the morning. We pray for mornings, we pray for heavens because everything else seems to incurably painful. He died at peace, with mom by his side. I call my father (assuring myself that since he is alive now, he always will be, it's a ruse, and this is fine).
The heat still doesn't work in my apartment. I hear the super running up and down the stairs but cannot get myself to stick my head out, this head full of prayers now, I sleep with triple layers it's nothing the North didn't put in my pacifier decades ago, what does it matter. These words only serve to remind you that you will die, one day you will die and there is nothing you can do about it. Lessons about fragility are heavy-handed in the moment, best let the darkness sink in for a bit before attempting to craft it into art, why do we craft things into art anyway, should we not spend our days
just holding hands?
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