The Distant Blade
The wool is damp. You know the texture of it. It clings to the shoulder blades, a heavy, wet fur. You are in the kitchen. The floor is linoleum. White. Cracked near the stove. You are wearing the coat. It belongs to your mother. It is too large. It swallows you. You are small inside it. A ghost in a shape. Margaret is at the table. She does not look up. She is peeling an apple. The knife moves...
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