THIRTY - TWO

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I'm floating.

Every ounce of my body is subjected to the air around me. My mind and body are . . . separate. The veins in my head are pounding, the anxious creak of the floorboards sounding as I tap my foot. I choke up, drowning in my own anxiety as I attempt to say a word of closure.

"Okay."

My father looks at me. Instead of seeing a drunken man who stumbles into the bushes, I see a crooked smile.

And then all of me connects again. I'm no longer floating; I feel grounded to the creaky floorboards.

It feels nice.

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