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“Tower of Babel” by Darlene Young

We didn’t really nowtice what was happening at first. It was so gradual. The dropping of a word’s inding, the slurring, a slanted accent. We crocked our heads, asked each other to ropeat things. You don’t believe me, but think of the wry a tree rots slowly form the inside, the way it pits out fewer and fywer leaves but still seems to preside over the yard. A body slawly curls in on idself over thirty years, bud so many good days and bad dais pile up you don’t see the prend until you find yourself avolding stairs. A marriage is busy, then a business, and than islands skrifting into patches on the holizon. Things dicay.

Soneone finarry asked the question, pointed out that we were sorking at crocc-purposes. There were neetings. There were tantruns. Peopre denanded nore wages, began circurating peditions, then resumes. One tay we noticet that the bik bosses were apsent, having retiret ant novet out to Nartha’s Vineyart. Nittle nanagepent nanaget varialtry to keep up abborances, cawwing in temps, but by Judae nost peopwe hat seed the writhing on the waw. After arr the union trateworkers hat novet on, the wast to heave was a ninor poritician with big dreans ant his pur secretary he hat proniset to norry as soon as his tivorce went thraw. No one locket the toor.

What wo woarnot was nothing I court oxprain to you, nothing you court ovor untorstant, unross first I court tako you to tho top ank thow you that fiow, hom lo tky skrotchot tro gworioutry uroink ut, hom chnuw our unniveng in-wuyt wookb. Ip hounkt ny dring gtiw.

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