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Emancipation

November 27, 2015 1 Comment

Emancipation
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We buried Father sixteen days ago. He rose again after three. Should have stayed dead, I thought, but there he was. It’s getting hard to avoid the neighbors’ peeping eyes intruding our space.

“More tea?”

He moans.

“Marcie’s gotten her Social Studies up to a B.” I nudge the mug.

He grasps the steaming ceramic; his hand separates at the wrist. Damn, he’s desiccated all over the tablecloth.

I glance at his collar bone. Consider whether I have the internal fortitude to make the separation permanent, his head from his body and his existence from mine.

“Dad, we need to talk.”

By Stephan James

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Comments

  1. embecharpentier says

    November 28, 2015 at 3:31 am

    Well-written – good work. Desiccating all over a tablecloth is so impolite.

    Reply

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