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53 R i c k K e m p a Long After Memory Is Gone Long after memory is gone he remains in an armchair in the parlor, an old scarf wrapped around his neck. With watery, droopy eyes he examines the photo album on his lap, a finger crooked above a face. “Who’s this? I don’t believe I know this fella.” Grandma comes up behind him, yells in his ear. “That’s Ralph, your son-in-law, Blanche’s husband.” He touches the photo for the connection. “Oh yeah, yeah, I know him.” This is your great granddaughter Claire. This is Fern, her mother. Here is your first son Tom. His finger, a divining rod, moves upon the pages then hovers, twitching in one spot. Into his eyes a blue clarity comes. “That’s Fritz, by god! That’s Fritz! She was a good old mare!” An April morning, a brisk wind at his back, his thighs clinging to the warmth of her body, the familiar heave beneath him as she mounts the ridge behind the house. The sage, stirred awake by their passage, envelops them. Nostrils flare. “Best thing about her is I don’t have to tell her to face forward. Not like some horses.” He holds to the photo as to her reins. 54 All day and then some he will ride her. The warmth of her work will fill him and he’ll shed his scarf, finger the buttons on his vest, every so often adjust his hat. For the thousandth time supper will grow old at the table. ...

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