Small-Talk by Karo Sadowicz

My father's heavy baritone murmured along the walls and painted the house with its deep secretive whisper. His voice vibrated in my throat when he spoke, but I could never make out what the words meant. Jumbled like marbles in his mouth, they rolled out on the table in a shapeless mess. My father never said important things with us in the room. We were worth only sports and the weather. His speech may have been coming from a radio, meant for all listeners or no one at all.

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