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157 Return to a Place I Don’t Remember There is no one here again. Next to the shed where he built cabinets, a sumac twists its rusty brushes. The air feels filled with lost smells: mint, lilac, mud-caked corms, moldering grass. Weren’t there cows here? Fences? Boulders, a barn, a path the herd walked to be fed, milked? Wasn’t there a grove of maples near the pasture’s edge? The afternoon, the evening, its first star; the morning. ...

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