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Revolving Door By Cheryl Snell Her recurring dream: daughter goes missing. Blonde rappels down the red mouth of Mother’s bete noir. Before that, this: Dad caught in a revolving door, Mother forever touching him through the glass, like a prisoner. Who knew the stick and stuck of it? We’re brought up short, top of the Ferris wheel, perpendicular to everything we hate, yet we can’t stop laughing. Mother, sound-proofed with age, has thickened. They’ll never get her out now. And us here all grown up.

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