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85 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g n o n e o t h e r We were leaning against the hood of my pewter Silverado, and I told her how I came to buy it, which is not the point here. I retold a fairytale she had heard of but did not know, and she told me about a person she had taken three months off to help heal. None of this is the reason I am working pen and paper on the upstairs porch after midnight. It is how when we hugged goodbye, my hand went innocently under her shirt to touch the small of her warm silken back. The feel of a woman’s skin is my subject. Along with the bridge of dying, my granddaughter’s skippy dance across, water, and this elegant need to write. ...

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