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35 Egyptology Because grief requires compartmentalization, you make a neat incision between your ribs with a kitchen knife and pull out your liver. You slide it, warm as loam, into an alabaster jar sealed with a lid shaped like a dog’s head. You do this till you are empty and the counter is covered in jars, their cat, bird, and dog heads cocked and staring.The heart you have no use for. Like the ancient Egyptians, you leave it where it is, salt it against rot like a piece of meat. Now you are ready to sleep wrapped in white linen, the bedsheets heavy as a sarcophagus’ lid. When you wake it will be with your arms crossed over your chest and a dream of gilded tombs on your tongue.The mirror will show you a face made of lapis and gold, which cannot decay, and you will step to the window to pit yourself against plagues, famine, time.And then you will feel something caught in the white bars of your ribs. Dust will settle on your bright face as you listen to the ravenous scuttle of your scarab heart clawing its way out.You will look down at your glittering chestplate and see a vulture caged in a cartouche— the first letter of your name—which reveals what you have preserved: a scavenger, starved for rot. ...

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