Bridges

Swan wore her father’s old wool sweaters, cuffs frayed and seams stretched. Crusted, blackened spots down the chest where thirty years of carelessly flicked cigarette cherries fell. There was one little fold, under the left armpit that still smelled of him, if she pressed the sweater hard against her nose and breathed as deep as she could.

Weekends, she’d spend all morning moving, drifting, floating through the few room of her apartment, the same Simon and Garfunkel LP her mother listened to and loved, spinning on the player.

Side B then A, then B, and A, and then B again.

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