The Paris Review

Margaret Atwood

WINTER VACATIONS

How quickly we’re skimming through time,leaving behind usa trail of muffin crumbsand wet towels and hotel soapslike white stones in the forest.But something’s eroded them:we can’t trace them backto that meadow where we began so eagerlywith the berry-filled cups, and the parentswho had not yet abandoned usto take their chances in the ground.

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