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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 1, March 2015


Susan B. Auld
Arlington Heights, Illinois, USA

The Language of Place

We stand together facing west, brother and sister, watching the sea turn to steel and the sky to citrus. A minute after the sun slips into the Pacific it seems to split—another sun just above the horizon flattens before it, too, slides into the sea.

His brain is dying. His world contorts, refracts away from what used to be his reality. He uses his index finger to trace the journey of thought. He says here to here then here and here—no other words for what he tells me. He expects me to understand. I tell him I do. Then, clearly, he tells me I'm going to water the flowers on the porch. I get up to help knowing he can do it himself. I use my finger to point his way to each pot.

fog settles . . .
both banks of the river



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