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D E B R A M A R Q U A RT Somewhere in a House Where You Are Not There is sunlight coming through windows somewhere in a house where you are not. An old man and old woman eating breakfast to the sound of the clock, out of words, empty of thoughts, but for who died this year and of what. If you follow the sun to that house you will find the long lost driveway that no highway intersects, the loose gravel crackling under your wheels, the sun breaking cleanly free of a horizon. You must park. You must come to an absolute halt outside the house where you are not, letting your many necessary miles drop from your bones like dust. Sit and wait. Do not fear the mop-faced dog. He pounds his tail for you. He is uninterested in your tires. The old woman will soon come, peeking through the ancient blinds, saying, who on earth, and seeing your face will hold out her hands, warm and soft 202 ❚ The 1990s as good black dirt, and take you inside, the house filling with your arrival, the old man smiling his surprised skeleton smile, the old woman asking, have you come far, was it a long drive, are you hungry, are you tired, to which you may answer, yes and lie down in the bed they have kept empty in your absence, reserved for the day you would need this room full of nothing, but rare morning light, and the stroke of an old brown hand, inviting you to rest, to sleep, to feel the earth revolve slowly around and around without you. The 1990s ❚ 203 ...

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