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22 Fr. Jerome He thinks he hides his grief within, but I see it perched on his shoulders like a sailor’s monkey, whispering in his ear. He thinks I don’t see the fine razor that divides his heart and head. He thinks I don’t see his struggle with Christ’s promise. I see his Jacob’s match and watch when he sits alone, fingering his rosary of grief. Night falls like a cage around us. I reach out to him, but he looks inward, full of a heatless rage. ...

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