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A Letter to My Unborn Son About My Chronic Pain

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Dear Ashish, It’s early April. It’s windy and sunny; when the air is still, it’s warm, but when it does blow, I wish I had a jacket with me.

The cherry blossoms are at their peak. On my daily lunchtime walk, I visit a tree – that I call Jessup, because it’s on Jessup Avenue – and spend a few minutes under its blossoms.

Some of them are done: they’re dried up, brown and tired. Others are just starting to bloom: you can see them curled up inside their warm cocoon, waiting for … something … I don’t know how each flower decides when it’s going to open up.

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