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86 inside​the​violet Beside​the​long​hedge​on​my​parents’​drive, where​the​gravel​waited​daily​for​their​tires to​crunch​it​open,​in​the​narrow​band of​earth​along​the​hedge​that​kept​the​loam’s thick​secret​from​the​shifting​sun,​I​knew a​purple​violet.​It​always​grew​there, hanging​its​knotty​shoulders​in​the​shade of​large,​more​splendid​leaves,​its​crumpled​head releasing​toward​the​earth. One​day​I​crouched to​find​its​eye​much​nearer​than​before and​stared​inside.​My​own​eye​was​lost in​the​echoing​hold​of​the​raw​deep​I​saw, though​my​hands​held​back​inside​the​driveway​world that​slowed​its​pulse​around​me​as​loud​sun shattered​all​the​gravel​into​shade and​tamped​the​earth.​The​middle​of​the​violet​loomed; its​heart​was​gazing​into​mine​to​hold me​like​a​violet,​too.​Then​as​its​yellow,​strong throat​turned​to​me​and​opened​one​more​door, defining​light​poured​from​a​silent​sun, flooding​my​face​and​choking​my​eyes,​until I​stopped​looking​in​violets. ...

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