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Sometimes despite your best intentions, things go all wrong.

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I would reach them. I would hold and comfort them, but they stay a foot away.
Out of my reach.

It is a bitter distance.

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Too little sleep. Three hours last night. Five the night before. Five more ten hour work days ahead before the next break. My eyes are hoarding sand and little metal fragments in their sockets, and they won’t turn them loose.

I need to wring out my spine.

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Our daughter left a note (calling us by our FIRST NAMES!) explaining that she understood that she didn’t like being around us and we didn’t like being around her, and that from now on we’d maintain minimal contact until she was out from under our thumb, etc.

She is fourteen.

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I love this little portrait of her.

“Nel mezzo di camin de nostra vita…”

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I am not insane or depressed.

I am not.

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