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56 Christmas, the Execution of Tookie Williams My father would be baking kolaches. I’ve shoveled the snow from the walk to the house. Returning home. Leaving home. Finding a home. The line into the soup kitchen is a block long. Wood on the fire. Eggnog. Christmas scarves on the dogs. All night the stars. The oldest ornament we own, a wooden snowman sitting on a red sled, is seventy-four. The delivery trucks follow one another up the hill. We’ve placed this year’s tea blend in the mailbox. Each day we rearrange the Christmas cards on our windowsills. There is a wreath on the door. What family we have left will not be here. The cold clings in silver webs on the windows. A woman behind a counter lays a necklace across her open palm. ...

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