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22 Katharine Hepburn in the Attic with Her Dead Brother Easter Sunday, the neighbor’s lawn tufted with colored eggs, but I won’t see them until later, until keening in the doctor’s yard, the girl with the shorn head — and the dead brother? Tom. His face distorted, I would have said it wasn’t him, blue, swollen, bulged, but I knew his bare feet. I would have said it wasn’t our attic, but I knew the boxes marked Holiday. It begins here, two bodies, both my own. One is cutting the rope with her mother’s sewing scissors. The other is acting like a young girl cutting rope. ...

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