Where did the whole world come from, Daddy, and all the countries and all the people and the paper towels and light bulbs? One day the gurgle, the next the girl with small fingers of joy in the sounds of hopscotch, bungee, budge securely interlaced with yours. Why then this flutter within the thorax, the gunmetal streaks marring the aquamarine lagoon, the cold scrutiny of the border guards? Copyright © Roy Jacobstein All rights reserved The Gettysburg Review, Winter 2007
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