The Wistful Grid
March 14 The pine needles have not fallen in three days, though the air is so cold it cracks on the tongue like thin ice. I am forty-two years old, and I have served this border for twenty-two, which means I have exactly six months of service left before my pension vests fully, a number I have counted so many times it has lost its meaning and become a kind of prayer. I am writing this to you,...
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