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Weekly Contest #362
The months leading to my grandmother’s death were enveloped in a constant buzzing.As days passed by, each person who had decided to come to her house (not many—we were only three) became restless. One spilled glass on the dining table had been enough for unrestrained weeping to ensue, from which I had found refuge only as my mother lead Sara back to her room while showering her with vapid words. The next morning, the same cups and plates we’d drank and eaten with were still there, opaque with dried grease. If my grandmother had been strong e...
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