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63 Independence Day The children slept right through the fourth of July. You and I floated in their silence like awkward colleagues. I can plot your moles. I know your mother’s secret. I can tell you where you lost your Ray-Bans sixteen years ago and which drawer holds your Patriarchal Blessing. I – only I – have seen you cry. Now we skim nervous surfaces. The children slept right through the fourth of July. All the love we thought we had washed around our careful feet. The ambivalent house surprised us with its nesty quiet. We met at the fridge and smiled. I’ll be honest: I contemplated reversals on that weekend the children slept right through the fourth of July. ...

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