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64 the widows’ handbook How Could I Patricia Savage have known that trusting calm and reason would leave you unescorted out of this life and find my nose now pressing against the cold pane, straining to watch what I then could not, them taking you out the front door zipped up in black plastic. I had turned toward the light, the children in the kitchen, bound to the care of the living, choosing alchemy to create cold sense out of the molten lead of your passing. As the world forgets, my turncoat heart laments: how did I not grab at their heels, screaming? ...

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