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“There weren't enough rosary beads in the world, nor numbers to count backward, when you left my room at night. It may be dangerous to be unfathered, exposed on the animal plain, but life unmothered is simply unlivable. I mean, why go on? I held a little funeral every time you left the room. I tried to smother myself with my pillow. I replayed home movies of our lost lives in my head. Then, eventually, I'd start to worry a scab or to scratch my dry legs or count my teeth with my tongue, taking some clinical half interest in my body, waiting for the night to pass. I withstood this agony for at least ten minutes before slipping out of bed to put my eye to the crack in the door. Because the wonderful thing about my bedroom was that it looked out on you.” — Amity Gaige