That's who is waiting for me:an invisible mandefined by a dotted line: the shape of an absencein your place at the table, sitting across from me, eating toast and eggs as usualor walking ahead up the drive, a rustling of the fallen leaves, a slight thickening of the air. It's you in the future, we both know that. You'll be here but not here, a muscle memory, like hanging a haton a hook that's not there any longer.
-Margaret Atwood
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