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Metronome

July 30, 2013

“We’re the only ones who do this,” John said.
“What?” I asked, then looked at him standing, swaying there on the other side of the room.

***

“Mommy plane?” my daughter asked from her car seat, a week after I’d come home. “Mommy choo-choo? Mommy bus?” she asks. She’s making a song of it almost, not knowing where I’d been, just understanding the things that were taking me away from her.

***

“This,” John said, looking down at his arms folded across his chest, his feet planted wide apart and his hips moving him back and forth like a metronome.

I was doing it, too I noticed, my whole body missing Nacine’s in a tempo of my own.

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