From 08fd8e95dccb91d0495a50d1009f85cb80cfad65 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Tue, 14 Apr 2015 18:09:55 -0700 Subject: First compile in v1.0.0 --- last-passenger.html | 56 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 56 insertions(+) create mode 100644 last-passenger.html (limited to 'last-passenger.html') diff --git a/last-passenger.html b/last-passenger.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab4d72a --- /dev/null +++ b/last-passenger.html @@ -0,0 +1,56 @@ + + + + + + + + + + +Last passenger | Autocento of the breakfast table + + + + + + + + + + +
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Last passenger

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Memory works strangely, spooling its threadover the nails of events barely related,creating finally some picture, if we’relucky, of a life—but more likely, it knotsitself, catches on a nail or in our throatsthat gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.

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An example: today marks one hundred yearssince your namesake, the last living passengerpigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marksa year since we last spoke. Although aroundthe world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m donewith you. I mourn no more your voice, the firstsound I heard outside my body that reachedinto my throat and set me ringing. But that string—

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memory that feels sometimes more like a tidehas yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heartis too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flexits unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetnessof beating wings, fly to me again, and alight,singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.

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