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Liza Kolbasov


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Post- Magazine

stitched in ink [narrative]

A tea bag in black ink winds its way up my upper arm, lavender and carnations blooming inside of it. The winter chill means it’s mostly hidden from the world. Sometimes I forget it exists. But in the back of my mind, I know it’s there: an amulet I carry with me, a reminder that I exist in the world ...

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Post- Magazine

gone in a moment [narrative]

A few weeks ago, on a grocery run, I came across bunches of daffodils—the first sign of spring. I bought a bunch and brought them home, cradling them gently; I put them in an empty pasta jar and propped them up against the windowsill. Daffodils always remind me of home—my mother loves them and buys ...

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Post- Magazine

washing dishes at four a.m. [narrative]

I’ve never been a neat person. Living at home, my mother would nag me incessantly about the pile of dirty clothes ruling over my chair, the trail of notebooks I would leave around the house, the army of mugs assembled on my desk, half-filled with forgotten tea. We’d constantly feud about the disorder ...

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