i turn the mattress. a large manila envelope is marked “do not throraphs, letters, greeting cards, and notes filled le item had passed from my hand to hers.
“do not thro ry to stay.
i retrieve garbage bags from the car and the curb. clothes and shoes go back into the closet. i remake the bed and pile it htening up, ” i tell him. “can you find some boxes for her stuff?”
he brings up cartons from the basement.“she left a mess,” he says.“i don’t mind. ” i reply.“she’s not coming back,” he says. his anger is gone, and no back. someday my daughter, the an, entos of childhood will await her. so will i.
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