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Nominated for Best Small Fictions.

The things in our house we haven’t gotten rid of threaten to overtake us. They collect dust and bear the possibility of silverfish and brown spiders with violin backs and gauzy white egg sacks. We dig them out of garage bins, attic storage, and bedroom closets. Nearly all of it is baby toys or decor from our dismantled nursery. Our son is seven: too old to still be interested but too young to let go willingly. 

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