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3 Sympathetic Magic The stray dog limped through traffic, tugged by the invisible leash over miles and years and griefs to rest her head in your lap, trusting you with her sleep. Sometimes what is needed comes to hand— a book fallen open to a page of benediction, the balm of song from the car radio’s dial, a pocket-laundered dollar to pay the toll. In distress, you wish for an apocryphal Veronica and she arrives at your side, offering her only tissue, dabbing at your actual eyes. But darkness still comes before day is yet done. Like a dowsing rod, you lean toward whatever is coming to you, the waters of loving, the sump of loss. Lean in. ...

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