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National Road |
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by Justin Goff
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1:17 |
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It must have been when I moved off the ward. I gathered everything into boxes--comic books, my Purple Heart, some CDs--and moved into an apartment in Baltimore with a guy named Hendrix. He was twenty-six and walked with a cane.
Your letter isn't the only thing I've lost: I can't find my favorite Queen CD.
* * *
Every week I see a doctor on Druid Hill, right by US 40. That's main street, in Columbus. Every week I want to drive out into the hills, past Cumberland, across the far corner of Pennsylvania, and West Virginia's little spur.
The doctor tells me I need to see you for what you are. He says sometimes people don't say what they mean. He doesn't let me ask anything. He asks me about my mother. Every week. I don't want to talk about her--I want to talk about you.
* * *
Last night Hendrix said you didn't exist. I tried to tell him about your letter. Lately we've been arguing over things like vacuuming and taking out the trash.
I'm coming to Columbus this weekend. I hope that's okay?
* * *
This morning Hendrix left. He's going to live with this woman he met who sucks her teeth when she eats. He's coming for his things this afternoon. We're closing out the lease.
You know, this morning--I can't remember your name. But I have your address written down in my notebook. I can find you all the same.
Justin Goff is a middle-school teacher who spends his free time (when he's not writing) earning the disapproval of ajummas on the rough streets of Seoul.
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