Every day someone calls at work, confused about X, desperate
for Y, angry over Z. And when I can’t help them I sink. Clutch the phone, listen
to them howl. Wait for the water to slip over my head.
My favorite bracelet means nothing—I braided the leather myself,
on a whim, out of boredom—but I ache when I lose it. Now the snap is loose and
it keeps falling off my wrist. Every so often someone taps me on the shoulder: “I
think you dropped this.” Or a week later Mum finds it, dampened, in the unfolded laundry.
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