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49 Without Child There are stories I tell my family, my friends—but I imagine they’re not the story I’d tell a child, sitting at the side of her bed, the room softly lit, portrait of the two of us under a cherry tree, posing on a carpet of white blossoms. I see myself telling her how beautiful she was the first time I saw her, imagine her sweet scent, her eyes, penetrating and wise with a thousand answers to what I’ve questioned about matters of the heart. She reaches for my hand, the strength of her grip surprising, frightening— the attachment, an offering of love I couldn’t take or give. Once I held a baby, sat her on the deep lap of memory, and tucked her in, until we both forgot. ...

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