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Sunrays had just punctured the sky. I had almost organized some half-graded essays, and was reaching for my mochaccino, when my phone rang.

I wondered if, now, I will smell gourmet grounds and remember how he spoke in vocabulary words–indefatigable, rebuke, feign–to learn them faster. How, daily, he crowned me with his hats: yesterday, Yankees.

Or will sipping coffee remind me of his blood spilling? Shot not two times, but three, on Greenmount and 25th.

Sunlight splattered on the essays I would not touch. I wondered which hat he was wearing. Which one they will bury him in.

 

 

 

Kerry Graham lives, teaches, writes, runs, and photographs in Baltimore, Maryland. Her work has appeared in The Blue Hour, The Three Quarter Review, Spry, elephant journal, and Tell Us a Story, among others. Connect with her on Instagram and Twitter: @mskerrygraham.
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