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38 A New Owner I feel my way into the autonomy of this house, places that were yours because territories arrange themselves through persistence and desire. Somehow pruning trees and hitting nails fell to you; I of course was in charge of food and literature. The nurturing needs of marriage are uneven, often bulging with discord or sodden with the inequities of mind and muscle. Now all belongs to me at an age I can hardly reach the high places, fearing falls, fractures, a bloody lonely death on the cold stone floor of the garage. So with every decision to take possession, I am the widow as well as the mistress—freed and frightened, older and newer. Just as there was no antidote to your death, there is no alternative to irony. I don’t mean to say death is a cosmic joke. That isn’t at all what I mean. ...

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