Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Thirty Summers #127 Claine Keily

My mother phones. She speaks of carpets cleaned, clutter moved then moved again. She urges me to sweep my fingers over floors even when I am sleeping. It is your job she says to lift up the dust the instant it has settled. When she asks about the weather, so as not to make her jealous, I lie and say the skies are grey.

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