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January 24, 2015


The clerk at the post office has my uncle’s voice.
I heft my packages onto the counter, hunt in my purse for my wallet.
“Priority?” He says this, like my uncle, using as few words as possible.
I am startled. Every time I am startled.
Why is my uncle at my post office, 1868 miles from his home on the side of the mountain?
I keep meaning to ask the clerk where he is from. Meaning to and not doing.
Maybe they are sharing it.
Only one can use it at a time.
Small sentences.
Long pauses.
Carefully chosen words.
Teaching quietly.


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