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Ray is standing in front of the grave stone and staring at his friend’s name. He has been doing this every year now for eight years, every September 11 at exactly 8:46am. And every year he looks at the ground that holds his friend’s body and asks the
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He bounced over the beach, twirling and leaping as sunlight warmed the breeze on his belly, like when he and Janie were six.
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To conceive of them separated was unthinkable to every wet-eyed soul at the burial.
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he dreams of levitation or
meeting Houdini
in the afterlife.
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into sepia,
into dust, the fifty one
thousand unnameable spores;
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not that we ever had before
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I feel like I should tell you
things about strength.
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