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It’s my dad’s 627 pound grand piano crushing into my chest. It’s the home I lost when I was 15— the one on Elderidge street with the secret coves inside of bushes and the diving board. It’s that bathroom on the second floor where mom braided my hair and then went to kill herself. The rattle of her pill bottle still crowds my brain, like dead teeth It’s the second home I lost all over again when I was 26 and he left her—
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