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11 Herself If she falls down the cellar steps carrying her laundry I’ll be one of those impossible friends who says She never listens to a word I say, I said I’d carry the laundry down. Having given up her car, she will not give up washer and dryer, hot and cold, the small, medium, and large decisions she takes with dials in the stone basement. Rat terrier, I sulk by the exhaust. She stacks clothes into her backpack and hoists herself up the narrow steps by the spindly rail, swaying backward, toward me, two steps below. If she tumbles, I’ll catch her, stubborn— when into my arms, the delicate and permanent press. ...

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