I can no longer raise my hands, taped and buried
snug in the thickness of my father’s stained gloves, my arms straining with
fatigue.
“It was a good fight,” a voice repeats. “You
put up a good fight.”
I try to focus, but the words are lost in my
swirling world of nausea.
On a stage where he had once reigned, my curtain
closes. It is far easier to fit in his gloves than his shoes.
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