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44 the widows’ handbook Bereaved Katharyn Howd Machan Her husband turned to silver, burned away. For months she couldn’t make herself believe. She’d wander home, drink wine at end of day, stare into dark as though her eyes could weave a shroud that she could pull apart by dawn to bring him back, lone hero, from the cave where shadows rule. Sometimes she’d walk the lawn beside his garden rows, where he once gave her tongue a first tomato, perfect, red beyond all fire’s crimson, that hot night so many years ago. And what he said? Our love will last as long as there is light.... She’s learned to hate the mornings, flow and ebb of time a dull bedraggled spider’s web. ...

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