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D Y I N G Y O U R B L A C K C L O T H E S B L A C K A relief, almost, when the second parent dies. “There,” the great, damp voice in the clothes hamper says at the end of the hall, “loneliness has its story.” Orphan. Finally a title worthy of your splendid melancholy! The roast beef is ready but you can’t eat. Where are the knives, the forks? I wanted fondue, you sob. Without parents oxygen grows thin, breath quickens— you might as well be the family pet panting under the kitchen table during an electrical storm. Everything speeds up. Shingles flake off the roof like dandruff; a new pair of mary janes squeaks and wears out all on the same raw Sunday. Dumplings harden into taxes, taxes come due. Molecules my molecules slipped from,  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 17 what was I born to do today but ask questions I did not ask in time? Then the predictable trick. Hauling your adulthood behind you like a toy you bought yourself but never really wanted. A pull-toy in the shape of a duck that quacks louder the faster you run away.  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 18 ...

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