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October 2013, vol 8, no 3

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Matthew Caretti


She brushes the tears from his rosy cheeks. Already drying. Just a minor tumble, she says. He nods, catching his stuttered breath. Soon he's up and running again. Climbing. Hanging. Smiling. Reminding her of his father. Really, she thinks, it doesn't hurt anymore.

from the swing
look-ma-no-hands wave—
ghost in the trees