Exchanging
facts: steamed cranberry pudding with butter sauce, Italian-Irish boyfriends,
lasagne moms taking phone calls from bed. Must
be lovely there, she says. A black stone sinks. I feel more lost-potato-bug than ever. In Seattle we hide in
broom closets, pretend we are asleep. Back East we put more lemon, more honey
into the mugs. It has come to my attention: I want you all to be so proud.
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