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76 As I Rewind The hands of the golden-oak clock spin the wrong way on the wall of my childhood house as I rewind the Christmas video. It’s over twenty years ago. My young mother’s head— sped up—jerks on the screen. Brunette in a blue velour day robe. Rewound, her coffee mug fills a dark inch each time she sips. The Maine Coon uncurls from our peach-colored couch, leaps to the window in reverse. My grandfather’s scarred thumb nudges into view—only once—and I pause that second. Black shadow: he’s behind the camera. He can’t stop focusing the lens on me. I sit at the green wire feet of the plastic tree. I smooth shut the wrapping paper, re-secret the objects, seal all the ripped seams. The stripes of winter sun—rewound—run eastward, and the smoke from my grandfather’s cigar ciphers back into leaves. ...

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