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I could have said a lot about the living room.

I mean.

It was like a pinata had popped. Only one where no one bothered to scrape the goods into a pile.

But I didn’t. Say anything, that is. I couldn’t. Not with her crammed into an Easter tote. And him stuffed into a cardboard box with his head half on her purple pillow as she read first this book and then that and then eight more.

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Because there was something deeper going on. Deeper than the sound of words. Deeper than Dr. Seuss or of pages turning.

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It was them.

Right there. In those boxes.

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Her loving him with words. And him soaking it up and loving her back.

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