by Larry Karp
I try not to imagine what my wife might be dreaming.
I stretch, swing my feet to the floor, take Harmony’s death certificate from my pocket, tear the paper into tiny bits, watch them flutter into the wastebasket next to the couch. Then I pull out my grandfather’s certificate, and tuck it with his photo between the back of Dad’s painting and the wooden stretcher-frame. Carefully, quietly, I hang the painting on the front wall of the living room, eye-level, where I can’t help but see it every time I reach for the doorknob. “He knew what to do for everybody in Hobart—how could he not know for himself?” Good question. Goddamned good question.
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