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Today, amidst drifting dust
and soft massed cobwebs,
I held pieces of a woman's life
in my hands. Her fragmented
history fossilized, small moments
emblazoned in faded sepia
and the script of old books.
I could not lay the pieces out
to read the whole story, but
it was enough to know
the worn, cleaned boxes I packed
them in would hold it all
a while longer,
for those who bear the traces of
that woman in their names and
in their faces, and carry all 

the tales of her
in heart and memory.
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