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Amy Marks the Year

Amy Welborn's latest is very moving:

Wednesday morning, an electrician came to the new house.

(We still aren’t there – the movers come tomorrow morning.)

A problem or two had emerged, involving sparks emitting from a ceiling fan and a subsequent power failure on one side of the house. He fixed it, and we talked about him returning to install a fixture here and there.

It was the first anniversary of Michael’s death, but what was I going to do? Sit around? No need to do that in order to contemplate – every hour was marked anyway and wouldn’t be denied in my head, even as I argued with myself about the arbitrary nature of “year.” Why does “a year” mean anything more or less than 364 days or 366?

I don’t know. But it does – or I let it.
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