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coping (more or less) 199 Widow’s Daughter Susanne Braham She’s come home to live with me, marking her space with strands of wild hair and boots left at the door six days since the rain. She must have been out drinking last night. This morning, the front door was neither locked nor latched, but I heard slamming somewhere in the dawn. Her father’s books grow dusty, still shelved along the walls in an order he alone had known, worldly wisdom languishing between their motley covers, while fleeting time proves sadly slow to soothe our weeping wounds. ...

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