Tuesday, March 11, 2008


The hem was frayed by years of abuse. What had been presumed sturdy tore at the seams. We took our patterns for granted and by the end it was too late. I suppose we could have been friends if I had learned to buy presents for birthdays. Afterwards I left and the border guards detained me on a white plastic chair. The night before the chair had stood in for a stool as the guard had hung his son's piñata from the highest tree in the yard. An oak. His pants ripped at the crotch as he stepped down.

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