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44 The Kindergartners All their lives they’ve waited for the yellow bus to come for them. Now it’s February and the mat is wet. The jointed door has folded back and shut again more times than any one of them can count. It has no novelty for them now. It goes without mention. The kindergartners ride along, subdued and quiet. That boy is gone who hit and kicked and was assigned all fall as seatmate to our son— a detail told so late to us, by then there was nothing to be done. The mother of the boy had died, the boy had been sent to stay in Coppock with his father. We stand in the mornings in doorways, blinking back the sun that glints from either side of the blue caverns their boots leave behind. We would do more than wave. These paths straggle jagged through our buried yards, registries of wind and intention. ...

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