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Show 270 bookmark, misplaced in the pages of time. And now that she had found it, had discovered it, it was of no use. It had lost its purpose. But it did derserve its own special trip. She left the waste bag on her bed, it was less than half full, she would add to it while washing the walls. As she descended the stairs, her hands flipped through the leaves, the old familiar feel of the paper. Yes, each day was there, she could feel it in her hands. Each night of lying beside the radio, each pencilled cross, made with such exact force that the paper was indented, raised on the back like Braille. She felt those raised JC'S, her fingers passing over them. Line after line, page after page-absorbing the collective effort of them back into herself. That long effort. And then, since only the paper itself was left, since it was now only waste paper, she put it into the big garbage can in the back yard. Shoving it down among the tin cans out of sight, and carefully setting the lid back down. There. That was out of the way. She returned through the kitchen to the stairs, climbing upward toward that room filled with the winter sun. |