The Golden Compass
What does a thing hold when it refuses to be sold? I ask you because I am sitting here, in the kitchen of my mother’s house, holding the brass compass that will not let go of my hand. It is warm. Not warm like a cup of tea, but warm like a living thing, like the flank of a dog that has been sleeping in the sun. I have tried to put it down, to slide it across the table, but it clings to my palm,...
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