03.01.07 - 12:09 p.m.

my feet were tangled up in quilts, my bangs were curled with fever-sweat and your voice was scratchier than mine when you called last night to say i'm sorry to do this to you, but she just. won't. sleep. not in the car, not in the swing, not on the dryer at the 24-hour laund-o-rama. please, you said. anything. she hollered in the background.
i told you to hold on. i fished for my autoharp at bedside. i didn't bother with the finger picks. put your phone on speaker, i told you, and i tried to sing louder than she cried.

when your house fell silent and you'd both fallen asleep, i told you i loved you and hung up the phone.

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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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