I’m on the 38th floor, looking out for the first time at mountain teeth scraping where fog blends with sky. There are people with doctoral degrees behind me, drinking Merlot or Moscato. A colorful chandelier of blown glass lights their irises, their polished shoes. Four months and thousands of miles away, all I can think is that this is what you must’ve seen before you jumped.


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Filed under Creative Nonfiction, lyric essay, Memory, Short Non-Fiction

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