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Can’t we put them all there


It had been a long time since I’d been to the ceiling. It’s like the Empire State building for New Yorkers—you could go there anytime, so you don’t. I leaned the ladder against the wall, checked the rubber grip of the feet and set off, lickety-split. Before long I’d arrived. The ceiling was as I remembered it—clean enough but somewhat desolate, the angle where it meets the wall long and empty as a hospital corridor. I brought roses along as a small apology. Apology accepted, the head nurse said, going to hunt down a vase. It’s the least I could do, I said, you know, if we can put a man on the moon.




Sarah Sloat