The Pale Meridian
The wool sweater is gray, a shade so specific to the fading afternoon light in your mother’s parlor that it seems to absorb the room rather than reflect it. You are wearing it. It is not your sweater. It has never been your sweater. It belongs to a man who died before you were born, a man whose name you have forgotten, though his weight is still on your shoulders, heavy and warm and...
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