Being Again the Same

Christine Stocke

If only we had all been born on the same Saturday afternoon in August. And, if only, each of us weighed the same precise seven pounds two point four ounces. The same strawberry blond hair. The same number of wrinkled toes. The same mole in the same fold of skin on our same chubby sweet meat left thighs. If we had all grown up with the same parents in the same house, walked to the same school and earned the same grades, then I think it might all have worked.

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