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56 Where Mourning Lies Someone said, this is what it’s like: one minute you’re going along as if nothing happened, the next minute you’re prostrate with grief. Ashamed, I realize I have not been prostrate. I have been congested, vague, swept by trivial weeping. I have lost a blue purse, but haven’t even approached the truly insane waves of wailing bringing me to my knees. I can almost make out that ancient keening as if I have been eavesdropping all my life through walls of loss. I have heard approximations of anguish from the throats of actors. I once heard a tape of mother gorillas mourning their dead babies: a choral howling soaring above forests of other animal noises. I have missed you pore by pore without once screaming. I have heard you walk into my house and vanish. I have reached for your hand and whimpered. Where in me is the cry of my inconsolable heart? ...

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