and hope is futile as a phone call. bad news makes a pyramid of tear scrunched tissues. I watch her stack them on the dining table.
she cries out for arms that can't reach her and nobody knows what to say. the parents weep back through the screen into their pillows. we box the board game she laid out for the night that could have been before the call. I think about impermanence and what gets left behind. there's still some dinner in the pan to save for later in the fridge. I lock it up in plastic as quiet as I can.
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