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34 Mother and Daughter Watching So we stood at the front window facing the lake as my father threw the lines on the dock. The boat withdrew over waves like shattered glass. My lover crouched beside my father, his eyes away toward wherever they were pointed. Trees bent and the wind picked up white sparks far out from the shore. There is a place where conversation ends. Where a person becomes a house with a locked door. My mother lifted binoculars to her face. The boat was now a driftwood speck, a mote in my eye. The lake had its own purpose, its own cold methods. “Does he know how to swim?” she asked, putting down the binoculars and heading back to the kitchen. So many things waiting to be cut up. ...

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