Now an Orphan (Draft)

The death of a loved one and the idea there is no other, or at least the idea the other is unknowable, is an odd idea awakening me. A bed no more mine than its owner’s rests below me. A wooden ceiling, to which I think deserves credit for everything I have ever written, rests above me, and while I’m giving it qualities of a living thing, I will say it ponders, too.


A.M. Hemingway broods and writes. His work has appeared here, elsewhere, and in his head. His short story collection, A Ghost Hovers Where Time Shadows, both does and does not exist.


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