Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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The tree is the same tree—same ornaments, same star, same lights that blink like they don't know someone is missing.
He calls two days late with traffic in the background. I rehearse being annoyed.
My grandmother's hands were a map of everywhere she'd been.
The first month, I kept calling. Not on purpose.
They are the original record of us— the vinyl before the streaming.
The sky was the kind of blue that makes you think nothing bad could happen—which is how you know you're still in the before.
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