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232 Blossom I sing of Blossom in her proud and permanent prime. She celebrates one hundred and three birthdays by wearing crimson lipstick and designer eyewear a la Gucci. She’s had her white hair bobbed beneath a crowning scarf. She’s totally lost count of every President she voted for, outlived and left to history. In photographs she smiles with all her original teeth. Dismissive of dotage, she chooses wardrobes that are right for her and her alone, as in her preference for lingerie a generation east of Mae West. She leaves no room for doubt. After her oldest daughter mentioned that she’d changed her will, Blossom asked her with a smile, “What did you leave me?” ...

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