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112 siesta fOr the dyinG Perhaps a few disconnected flashes— snow turning in wet flakes over that first winter in the house, a sweet spoon of dessert or a French market flooded with light, weighing radish and cherry. Mostly though, as I lie in a room as dim as this, prostrate on similarly creased and sweated sheets, I’ll recall my mother and father, try to conjure their lost faces, smile at my grinning dog in the ground for decades. My wife, hollow from crying, will hold my hand lightly so not to hurt. I’ll offer banalities of comfort that bring none, whisper for water, tally a typical math of regret and disbelief—how can this be? And yes, as open eyes go blind and last breath exhales a ghost, as the exhausted heart surrenders, yes I will think of you, remember you, and that for me will be the end. ...

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