First she set the sharp knife down, the tremor just enough to unhinge her certain grip, confused some words she’d always known, couldn’t self-correct “tostesterone.” We all chuckled. Then the stutter started and we spoke slower. Those who claim to be speechless never are. She listens, groans, stares so hard we have to look away while her thoughts, dammed above her throat pool up and burst. Words don’t give meaning to our life so much as prove it’s there, and she’s not talking.
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