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Though her home is deep in the country, Juana can hear the bells of vespers clearly. She has not set foot in church since she lost the child. She prays alone. Three months without a word from Carlos, and the last letter held no future for them with its chatter of snow falling like coconut shavings from the sky, its joke that it was Mary making holiday treats for the saints. Juana crosses herself for the blasphemy. Her days have been an endless progression of heartbeats; nights, a slow-moving river she floats on, pain like a small animal digging into the muddy bottom of the past. On her knees by the window facing the town sinking into darkness, rooftops and church spires held aloft in orange clouds that are God's fiery hands, she breathes in the warm, vegetative air. Evenings, coming in from the fields, her man had once brought her the aroma of growing things—coffee beans, sugarcane— on his skin. Juana counts Hail Marys on her rosary, giving each red bead the name of a child: Rosita, Ramon, Jazmines, Jose. 81 Juana: An Old Story ...

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