The Distant Machine
March 14, 2024. I have counted the stitches on the selvedge forty times. Forty. The number is safe. The number is small. The loom in the corner of the apartment is not a loom; it is a mouth that has forgotten how to close. It sits by the window where the light hits the dust motes, turning them into gray snow that never lands. My sister, Clara, died on a Tuesday. The doctors said it was the...
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