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It's like Pop and I are surrounded by Susie's old dress. The same blue color with a hint of gray-- from when Mom washed my heather t-shirt with it. And it goes on forever. And it makes me think of Susie and how she never came back from school that one day that seems a million years ago. And how her blue dress-- the one she wore to school-- hangs on a hanger, still in her closet, though the rest of the room's empty. It tastes like the time I got soap on my tongue. I don't go in there anymore; my stomach knots up, and I don't know how to untie it. I still believe Susie's dress is in there. But I don't think I'll ever be sure.
Pop hands me the long wooden fishing pole, the one he talks about all the time, and his eyes crackle in the corners. It's dark, and slippery, like butter. I don't want to hold it today; I hope Pop's not angry. Because I'm terrified I'll drop it and tear Susie's infinite dress. Occasionally it ripples, like when she spun around.
I miss Susie.
And I wouldn't ever want to rip her dress.
I think she'd be upset with me
when she comes back.

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