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By Adam Gianforcaro

Your mother cursed the town you moved to and the man you moved in with, and that’s how I found out about your death, four years after the fact, when I searched your name online and came across your mother’s posts, hundreds of them, one after the other, as if Facebook was the only way to your spirit, as if this was the only logical way to mourn, post after post, which has somehow shifted my memories of you, because your mother is there now, in the woods where we used to smoke, in your bedroom, wanting more than anything to yell at you about the laundry or the movies from the library you put god-knows-where, but instead, communicating in a language of clairvoyant key stokes, posting to tell you that your cousin had her baby or that the dog learned to give paw, that she did it twice today, and it made her think of you, those brown eyes, that solemn stare after being praised.

Adam Gianforcaro is a writer from Wilmington, Delaware, with stories and poems in The Cincinnati Review (miCRo series), Poet Lore, Maudlin House, Lunch Ticket, and elsewhere.


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