the columbia review
scabbed-on shirt. Take a deep breath. When you are sixty-two and your liver has made its final gambit, your daughter will come into the hospital room and remind you of this story. She will be twentyseven and she will laugh again. You won’t because your sides will be weak and because you won’t know why she’s laughing. Her interiority is opaque to you. “I feel like I’m dead,” she will giggle, wiping away a reddish tear. “A-ha-ha-ha-ha. I feel dead.”
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