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by Mary Flynn Ahh, so very long ago, and yet I see it still that little table in the breezeway, our favorite. Remember? How silly to think you could. Ancient Botticino stone at our feet, and overhead a fuchsia bough the scent of sweet wisteria that would have to last a lifetime. Mine, not yours. Beyond us, the glistening waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, as yet undefiled. Waiting. How apropos, the weeping fig.
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