The Faded Root
The coat was red. It should have been blue. I wore it to the funeral. My own. Or so the paper said. The *Herald* ran the obituary on a Tuesday. My face looked tired in the photo. It did not look dead. I looked like I was waiting for a bus. I stood before the mirror in the attic. The coat hung on the hook. The wool was thin. It had stretched. The elbows were bald. The red had faded to the color...
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