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This I Could Understand On off-white walls, the writing extends down the hallway to the front door. Using his piano as a bar, there are opened bottles of vodka and beer. Everywhere, leaning piles of trash; and in the corner, a dish for a deceased cat. The plate had been created by his mother. Her signatory grey and blue finish with a pattern of fish. Yet I’d abandoned this place, not returning for many years. A GE kitchen magnet still sticks to the frig, with clippings from when we were married. And the plate his mother created, still awaits a cat that would never return. Especially, if it was still alive. And this I could understand.
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