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  • I would write these letters to her whenever I did something wrong. When I made her cross.

    Dear Grandma, I know you hate me but I love you none the less.

    Or something to that effect. I was an emotional five years old. Often bursting into fits of tears and screams. What I now recognize as separation anxiety. My face would scrunch making way for a trembling bottom lip in its second phase familiar place. They deemed it more of my dramatics, as I sat in front of her closed bedroom door folding the page up so it would fit under her door. Now that I recall I don't ever remember her reaction, as it would most doubt ably feed into my fit of exasperation.

    I don't say that word anymore and I can't remember when I stopped. It's been cursed on; it makes people run for their lives in the other direction. I've been trying to use it again but it hasn't made its way past a birthday card because the sound of it brings back those thoughts I couldn't articulate then.

    Adults ruin those words say them willy nilly spilling them all over the room. Making everything freeze in place.
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