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61 I F I T I S M E A N T TO B E That first Sunday in Whately, a cabbage white floats beyond us, as if our energy together is the wind itself. We talk about learning how to play “Silver Bells” on the piano, so we can sing it at Christmas. When you ask, What is your favorite piece?, both of us choose the pleasing simplicity of the celadon Chinese bowl; the Turkish candelabra, ornamented with gilt-leaved loops around each candlestick that open with the signature of infinity; the three duodecimal volumes bound in the sensuality of 15th-century Italian vellum. We walk in our own sweet music, that easy wind that makes the pleats of your skirt swirl, causes the creases of my slacks to ripple. You see me in the shells in the bell jar on the ledge of your office window. When Rilke speaks about his hands, as he writes, having a life of their own, you go on beyond me somewhere, and I know I am a happy part of you. ...

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