From the story "Hat of Glass" My children are grown, and the dead one who dropped out of my womb is long buried, covered over by the beauty and brightness of the ones who came later. I once took out a picture of my dead husband to show my oldest son, but he didn't believe me. The truth, after all, is a great mosaic, with motley pieces forever falling into place. When one piece is missing, I sometimes look for it, and often I stop. Whenever I pass by road signs in my country, I think about her. Maybe Clarissa is living here, maybe there. Perhaps her face is sealed, revealing nothing, except for the wet and oozing sap of…

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