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179 October 18, 2001 Mist on the pond, his blue eyes sky. Jeweled grass. I think of my mother’s bedroom vanity buried in Johnson’s baby powder, snow thick, deep enough for a box of money to be camouflaged in it. Footprints trailing powder thru the house. We wore masks clearing the house out. Talcum in drawers, in shoes, in cashmere. How today it would be evacuated ...

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