Hearing the poem of his life, it was as if Tom could no longer discern the speaker. Was it Grace or me? Was this Paris or London? Was that fireworks or smoke? He saw a bride in her long white veil, confetti, and a funeral procession, dirt landing on the lid of a child’s coffin. Henry screaming in the delivery room, or was that Chloe in the hotel? Was that Grace’s scar on my face? Henry in the morning eating porridge in the kitchen, or was that Chloe with her crêpes? He heard his feet hitting the risers as he ran down the stairs to search for us in the lobby of the Ritz. Was that a violin
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