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Routine

3/29/2020

 
by RICHARD LEISE
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​IMG_0418 by Abigail Batchelder | Flickr

​A toddler falls from a balcony. It takes a moment—there is no commotion, no gathering crowd; there is, after looking up, no sound—but in time (you slowly walk closer until, incredibly, you make out impossible human features, a leg uncertainly angled) you realize that the girl isn’t a garbage bag, that she isn’t a pile of clothing and that, somehow, there, on the sidewalk, like a cat struck by a car, is a child, and not just any child, but that little girl who waves every morning on your walk to work.
​

That she’s alive? This doesn’t cross your mind.     

Earlier.



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