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April 2018, vol 14 no 1

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Crystal Ignatowski

Open Adoption

The last time I saw my daughter, it was a Saturday. We carved pumpkins. We opened them up with tiny knives as if we were surgeons. We weren't surgeons, but we placed their insides in a bowl and pretended to be. The goop glistened and gleamed. The house smelled like pine cones, and fall, and wet leaves. She grew tired of the orange mess, as three-year-olds do, so I popped in Young Frankenstein. We sat on the couch close together, but not touching. I spied on her out of the corner of my eye and tried to spot the similarities: eyes, nose, chin, cheeks.

crisp evening
the sectional sofa
wide as the ocean


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