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[23] P R I Z E She looks at me through a caul of forgetfulness. Does she want to be understood? She who could not watch her own mother die but locked herself in the bathroom, vomiting. I ask myself why should I? She was like the morning glory’s trumpet in late afternoon, disappointingly folded in on itself, hiding her heart from view. I stroke her hand, its skin thin as a petal, knowing she will never play the music I hoped for. ...

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