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69 Tabula Rasa “You฀may฀lose฀the฀ability฀to฀use฀your฀right฀hand.” —Surgeon’s฀diagnosis I฀think฀about฀the฀end฀of฀writing฀and฀what฀may฀follow: Some฀sunlight฀across฀the฀bowl฀on฀the฀kitchen฀table. A฀daughter฀stopping฀by฀after฀work.฀I’ll฀lift฀the฀cup of฀coffee฀with฀my฀left฀hand.฀We฀will฀laugh. The฀dogs฀will฀wrestle,฀the฀older฀one฀letting the฀pup฀pull฀tufts฀of฀hair฀from฀his฀scraggly฀ears. The฀geese฀will฀still฀bring฀their฀V,฀north฀then฀south. I฀know฀a฀solitary฀one฀will฀fly฀by฀and฀I฀will฀wonder about฀its฀being฀alone,฀if฀it฀will฀find฀its฀way. I฀won’t฀know.฀You’ll฀say, “Go฀ahead,฀stir฀the฀soup,฀add฀some฀more tomatoes฀if฀you฀like,฀or฀maybe฀some฀oregano.” I฀will฀use฀the฀phone,฀but฀I’m฀used฀to฀stamps, love฀writing฀a฀name฀and฀address,฀their฀steady place฀floating฀in฀the฀center฀of฀a฀moving universe,฀then฀adding฀where฀to฀return the฀letter฀if฀it฀doesn’t฀find฀its฀way฀and฀needs to฀wander฀back.฀Up฀there,฀in฀the฀left฀corner. 70 That’s฀a฀kind฀of฀home.฀And฀in฀the฀center,฀another. And฀there฀we฀are,฀heading฀out,฀hoping฀we฀connect without฀knowing฀when.฀Maybe฀not฀even฀where. ...

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