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Downstairs  Garage 35 The Ham Every fall, when maple blood was drying, my father hung a ham in the garage— country-salted, curing for the Fourth— between two racks of clothes we didn’t want. Some nights they’d send me there to rob the freezer of blueberries or glistening slabs of cake. By freezerlight I’d watch green shelves appearing, their tenants warped and moldy from the damp: entire works of James Whitcomb Riley, jigsaw puzzles—Holland, Lake Louise,— spiral handles of white graveyard baskets, a Signet classic, Love without Fear. But sometimes I would stop, lulled by the stillness, perhaps to see the porchlight through the door, and catch sight of the ham among the coatsleeves— sudden gleaming flesh that was all wound. I’d leap the stairs, slamming doors and light against the deadweight heart that stopped the house. ...

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