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41 spring wedding Oregon, again—orchards of sagebrush and then the lush valley, the floating snow of Mt. Hood. Red poppies flare by the sides of the road despite how anyone feels, and instead of grass, a carpet of emerald leaves and tiny white petals like grains of rice. If I fill my arms with flowers and wait on the cliffs above the river, who knows what sorrow might decide it no longer owns me and rise to give me away. ...

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