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152 f r o m g o u r d s e e d k i n d l i n g This woman I am with is having her palm read by my friend. I am not allowed near. I go off up the hill to gather kindling in the apple basket. Cracking small limbs from the brush, I see them down on the deck, laughing, faces close, hands mending together. Here with the sticks, I find something, a numeral, a wooden number one, streaked and flaky red, with a rusted chain attached. I carry it back with the full basket, hang it over the fireplace, and wait for praise. Forty-five and sour with jealousy, I wish this would pass, and I would give up, like these dry water-throats, to being just a friendly, apple-munching fire. ...

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