I was a runner for thirty-five years. I thought Iwould always run.


The clothes were smashed together, compressed like prom roses in a scrapbook, faded and musty. Slacks, blouses, jackets, sweaters, and skirts crammed two tiers of rods. Hangars bowed from the years of weight. There was something guileless in the arrangement. My sisters and I gathered in the room to dismantle the still life. There were also …

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