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Lost Hours
Your watch stopped forty-five minutes after you
died. willing it on; next seated with mother in a repair shop, terse glances at the work room. The attendant returned it with a frown, even a look of hostility, confirming that it was beyond repair, that somehow the coils and springs had been wrenched inside-out, and what precise, violent change of atmosphere had afflicted me, pulverizing each mechanism clear? I hurried home, cradled that unresponsive metal in my palms, awed by the tumultuousness of your passing– how, so trapped in bed, you struggled within and sundered time to the anger of leaving us alone. –Ashley D. Faulkner
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