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22 Dreams of My Father He hugs me and weeps, says he has fallen in love with a woman named Myra and shows me her snapshot pasted inside the top of an old candy tin. In the photo she is five, riding her tricycle, I think it reminds him of me! His car is loaded with bags of sugar. Everything he needs to bake cookies, to live on. I don’t question any of it. The bags look like pillows. I tell him I haven’t been able to find a comfortable one. My sleep is restless, has been since he left. He draws my head to his chest. I can’t move. It’s softer than anything I’ve known. I tell him I’ve become a vine with tangled roots. Something inside me cannot take to the soil. I tell him I’ve lain my head on grass and tree, book and desk, seashore and window ledge— all of it a window ledge. ...

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