Susan closed the door of her father’s Toyota, looking through the window one last time to make sure there were no crumbs from her scone on the seat. “No eating in the car,” was one of those rules set by her father that was openly ignored by all of his children. She laughed.

She had parked at the bottom of the long stairway leading up to the Mullen Home for the Aged, and started the climb to the entrance.

Snowdrops and crocuses were coming up and the grass next to the receding snow was a bright green. The gardener had planted pansies in a bed beneath the Sacred Heart statue. Susan thought about her father saying you could use the statue for a sundial, Jesus’ extended arm as the perfect gnomon.

The receptionist, a woman with thick grey glasses and hair that needed a date with a comb, sat behind the desk.

“Sister Anne here?” Susan asked.

“Please sign in,” the woman responded, tapping vigorously with her pen.

“Oh, really,” Susan would have liked to reply, “I’ve only been coming here every break for the last two years; they all know me.” Instead she said, “O.K.” and signed her name.

“And a badge.”

Susan reluctantly took the “Volunteer” card.

She asked again, “Sister Anne?”

The woman gestured with her head that Susan was to wait in the visitor’s room and reached over to the phone.

The case of relics, donated by Monsignor Krohl, sat in the visitors’ room and Susan looked at them, wondering if she knew all the saints. There was Vincent de Paul, Therese, Padre Pio, John Vianney, Faustina, Thomas More, Margaret Mary Alacoque, and several more—bits of bone, strands of hair for a couple of them, a small square of cloth for others.

A Jewish friend of hers had found the idea of relics repugnant, “You mean bits of their bodies, and you worship them? Yuck.”

“No,” Susan replied, adept at her catechism, “we don’t worship them, we honor them and ask them to pray for us. The relic’s a way of having them close to us and remembering that they were once just like us.”

Then Sister Anne came in and Susan put aside the thought of relics.

Sister Anne was a large woman, about forty, wearing a snug white habit. She smiled at Susan in an impish way.

“What?” Susan asked.

“We’ve got a challenge for you. Did you drive?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m having you do us a favor. Mr. O’Connell on the second floor. He wants to go for a haircut. Normally he would just get one from Sister Rose, but he’s insisting he needs a real barber shop: ‘Chuck’s’, if you’ve heard of it. And Mother wants to humor him as he’s recently widowed. Think you can handle it?”

“Sure. I know Chuck’s. My brother goes there.”

“Good, good. He is a little…”

“Pushy?”

“Demanding. You’ll like him. Now let’s go up and I’ll introduce you.”

On the second floor, the nun took Susan down the hallway, past the imitation cathedral radio and the tropical fish. A man sat with his back to the door of his room. He was tall with a balding pate fringed with white hair. Even from the back, Susan thought he looked melancholy.

Sister Anne spoke, “Mr. O’Connell, I have someone for you to meet. This is Susan, she’s taking you for your haircut.

He turned around. “A haircut? Oh, yes. Susan, nice to meet you.”

She could see his eyes were bright and clear, his face had the same baby’s skin pink as the top of his skull, and his teeth (false or real) were white and strong. He looked very Irish, as her father would say. He’d been reading a novel by Ralph McInerney when they’d come in. He stood up to his walker.

“This is very kind of you, so let’s get going. I don’t want to take your entire day.”

Susan demurred. “No problem.”

The man turned to the nun, “Is my suit back from the cleaners? Who knows, I may be needing it for another funeral.”

“Let’s pray not too soon. You should wear your heavier jacket. It’s chilly.”

“Yes. I’ll bundle up.”

Again Susan caught a hint of sadness.

Mr. O’Connell pulled himself up to his walker and began scooting his way to the elevator. He managed that trek dexterously, as well as the one to the front door. It was when he was outside that problems arose.

A driveway led from the entrance to the parking below and Susan instantly offered to get her car and come back to pick him up. He refused.

“I’m not that old. I don’t think I should navigate the stairs, but this driveway isn’t too bad. Nice gentle slope.”

The slope proved more intimidating to him and his walker than he had thought and Susan again offered to go and get the car.

“No, no, no, I’ll make it.”

About halfway down, realizing his slowness must be excruciating for the girl, he quipped, “Don’t mind me. Talk among yourselves.”

She ventured her own joke, “I think I’ll go to the prayer garden and say the stations. Then I have time to go home and do laundry. I’ll be back around two.”

He laughed. “You’re certainly not a coddler are you? I won’t be getting any of the baby talk from you.”

“Not hardly,” she replied.

When at last they were seated in her father’s car, the walker folded and put in the back, he turned to her and said, “Where to now?”

“The barbershop? ‘Chuck’s’ for your haircut?”

“Well… I’ve been thinking. The haircut can wait. What I’d really like to do is find Karen.”

“Karen?” she asked.

“My wife.”

Susan felt awkward. She could have sworn that Sister Anne had said Mr. O’Connell was a widower, and yet here he was wanting to find his wife. She asked, “You don’t… know where she is?”

“No,” he answered. “You see we were both kind of independent so it was never much of a surprise for her go off for a couple of weeks on her own with her photography or exploring some little town or another, but this has been much longer, much longer than that.”

Maybe Susan had misheard Sister Anne. Even if not, she wasn’t about to burst the old man’s bubble.

“There’s a coffee house where we used to hang out. She might be there. ‘The Market’. You ever hear of it?”

“’The Market,’” Susan exclaimed, “I love that place. We always go there.”

“Good, good. So you’ll know where it is.”

She thought for a moment. “Parking might be rough.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “Got a piece of paper?”

As she drove downtown, the old man beside her was writing something on a pad that Susan’s father kept in the backseat. At his direction, she pulled into a handicapped spot on Larimer in front of the coffee shop.

“Here,” he said, “put this on your dashboard.” He was laughing. “Better yet, stick it in the back window.”

“I don’t know…” Susan began. “I don’t think they will like this.” On the sheet of paper, in big block letters, he had written, “Genuinely Handicapped,” and in smaller letters below, “License Plate on Other Car,” and as an extra measure, “I am handicapped too.”

“Sure they will,” he laughed, “Works all the time.”

She helped him out of the car and as he was toddling up to the metal steps, he began gesturing with his head towards a woman sitting at a table on the patio. “Hey, isn’t that Dyan Cannon?”

“Who?” asked Susan.

“Woman over there with the big wine glass.”

“No, I mean who the heck is Dyan Cannon?”

“Movie star from the 60’s and 70’s.”

“Well, if she was a movie star then, she’d be old now, and that woman isn’t…”

Sotto voce, wanting to have his little joke, but not wanting to make a spectacle of himself, “I don’t mean the Dyan Cannon, I mean a Dyan Cannon like appearance. Let’s go inside, start looking for Karen.”

“Used to be an old office supply store next door,” Mr. O’Connell was saying to her, “Ran by a guy named Joe. Fine paper and they would print you up letterhead or make rubber stamps. They had globes and art supplies and fountain pens. I have a fine globe, still shows the U.S.S.R.”

They looked at the shelves of Danish, muffins, croissants, and other baked goods that stood beside the marble coffee counter. “Hamentashen,” Mr. O’Connell exclaimed, rattling his walker with delight. “Karen used to like those. Jewish things. Let me get two of those Hamentashen and a cup of coffee and then you can go around and see if Karen is here.”

Susan wasn’t sure she liked that prospect, looking for a woman she did not know, who was probably dead anyway, but she agreed.

A couple moved from the seats in the little alcove to make room for Mr. O’Connell, and Susan heard him thank them as she got the coffee, “You didn’t have to do that, but it certainly is appreciated.”

“You see that man, gave up his seat for me? Cary Grant.”  Susan lay down the Hamentashen and the Danish, and looked over. No, certainly didn’t look like a Cary Grant.

“Well, he had an English accent,” Mr. O’Connell insisted.

Karen was pushing crumbs around her plate and dabbing the spilt coffee in the saucer with a napkin. She asked him, “What did you mean by that, ‘I am handicapped, too?’”

“Hah,” he laughed, “It’s from a story I used to read to the kids, ‘The Potato Faced Blind Man,’ by Carl Sandburg. You see, this blind beggar has this cardboard sign, or the 1930’s equivalent, and on it he writes, ‘I am blind too.’ The point being, is there some other handicap he also has? Or are you, the reader, and all the people of the town around him, blind as well?” He paused for a bite of the Hamentashen and then said, “’I am handicapped too.’ Karen was always good about that, giving to the cardboard sign people. I’d give her a hard time, tell her, ‘You know they’re just going to use it for drinking,’ and she’d turn to me and say, ‘Oh?’ Archly like that, ‘Oh?’”

They sat for a while and Mr. O’Connell said, “You want to get me another cup of coffee, sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart?” she answered, arching her eyebrows in mock pique.

“Sure,” he answered back, “Would you prefer ‘darling’? Now be a good girl.”

She laughed and got him the coffee. She was getting worried about time, “Shouldn’t we be getting…”

“On with our search? I know. I haven’t seen Karen come in or leave. Maybe you could go look in the smoking section.”

“Smoking section?”

“Don’t look at me that way. I’m not addled. I just call it the smoking section out of fondness and nostalgia, remembering back to the days when Karen and I and the kids would sit up there sharing our cigarettes over a cup of coffee.”

“The kids?”

“I’m teasing. The kids would be in their stroller. Karen and I would be the ones smoking. Those were pleasant days, filling up those aluminum ashtrays full of butts. So, go see if Karen is up there.”

“I don’t know what she looks like.”

“That’s right. Here.”  The old man removed a tattered black wallet from his pocket which was bulging with business cards and papers. He took from it an old photo, in which the colors were beginning to run into each other.

The woman in the photo was about thirty, tall with blonde hair, and a large smile on her face. She was standing on a green wooden platform and in the distance you could see a waterfall.

“Yellowstone,” Mr. O’Connell said. “Honeymoon. I wish I had a more recent one, but our daughter Catherine has all the photos. Except one on my dresser. That would have been a little hard to bring.”

Susan sensed sorrow in his speech rather than the joyful bravado. But he masked it, “Now, get on your way, upstairs and look around.”

Susan went up the small flight of wooden stairs to the deli section with the hot meals, the cold sandwiches, and the shelves of packaged gourmet food.

No one remotely looked like the tall happy blonde in the checked dress. She stood for a moment though near the soda fountain and the bowl of lemon slices you could put in your water and imagined seeing Mr. O’Connell, and that woman at one of the tables, a couple of toddlers in a stroller and an ashtray overflowing with butts.

She got back to their table just in time, for her cell phone was ringing.

“Susan, this is Sister Anne. Where are you?”

Susan looked up at Mr. O’Connell and said, “It’s Sister Anne. What do I say?”

“Tell her we’re still looking for a barber shop.”

Susan spoke into the phone, “I’m supposed to say we’re still looking for a barber shop.”

“Oh, my. Well, he always was Jesuitical. Are you o.k. and is he o.k.?”

“Yes, we’re fine.”

“Good, good.”  The nun paused. “Dinner here is five thirty. He has to be back by then.”

“Oh, my. I hope we’re back long before that.”

“You can bring him back now if he’s too annoying.”

“Oh no. I think I can handle him.”

She had thought about asking Sister Anne if she had heard wrong and Mr. O’Connell’s wife was still alive. But that seemed like one of those fairy tale things where there was a question you weren’t supposed to ask or a word you weren’t supposed to say.

“While you were talking…,” Mr. O’Connell began, “Dean Martin came in. He’s up there ordering one of those weird coffee drinks. Should I call him over?”

Susan didn’t think so. She glanced at the counter and this time the guy really did look like Dean Martin.

“Sister Anne called you Jesuitical.”

“Well what does she expect? Graduated Regis; Karen was at Loretto Heights. He smiled at the memory.

They were finished with their coffee and Susan warily asked, “Where to now?”

“Barber shop?” he laughed. “No, we have a bit of a drive. Hope you’re up to it.”

“Well…”

“Don’t worry. Sister Bertrille will reimburse your gas.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, the one that flies.”

Susan rolled her eyes, aware of the allusion to an ancient TV show too dumb even for her little brother. Skeptically, she asked if the home really would reimburse her gas.

“No, of course not. I just made that up.”

“Like everything else.”

“Hey, watch it.”

They ended up on the campus of the School of Mines, as Mr. O’Connell told Susan the last time he had gone out with Karen had been to a concert there.

“Big auditorium. The Greene Center. Maybe there is another concert. Or maybe she’s taking photos. Once they hired her to photograph the orchestra for a brochure. We can catch her on the ingress or the egress. Here’s a woman we can ask where the Greene Center is.”

The woman, casually dressed and late forties, smiled. “Sure. Follow this path right before you get to the quad and it is on your right. I think they have some handicapped parking near there.”

“Yes,” Mr. O’Connell said softly, embarrassed, “Well, we prefer to walk. You’ve been very helpful. Do you know you look like someone I know? When she was young and fair, I mean.”

The woman awkwardly smiled and wished them goodbye.

“She didn’t,” Susan said, “look like your wife. That was the woman you meant wasn’t it?”

“Susan…”

“She didn’t. Not at all. Not a smidgen. Your wife was tall and blonde and had an entirely different face. That woman was short, a skinny little thing, as my mom would say, with dark hair.”

“Susan,” Mr. O’Connell replied, “I was just trying to make polite conversation, and maybe I didn’t mean Karen at all, maybe I meant some other woman entirely. In fact, I did. Audrey Hepburn. She looked very much like Audrey Hepburn.”

“Scoundrel,” Susan laughed.

“Well, there is that too. A scoundrel. Maybe that is why Karen is missing.”

They reached the Greene Center, a large low building of no notable architecture.

“Should paint it green, be easier to find,” Mr. O’Connell said.

“Except it’s Greene with an e at the end, someone’s name, not green the color.”

“I know that. It’s just that they could make use of the pun. Puns with a purpose so to speak.”

“Here,” Susan said, growing impatient, “No one is here. Shouldn’t we be getting you back to Little Sisters?”

“Not quite yet. Just one or two more stops.”

Back in the car, he told her about the concert he and Karen had attended—all Beethoven. He began humming, “’Humm da da humm humm, humm da da humm humm, humm humm hummm,’ Beethoven’s 5th, Karen’s favorite.”

“That’s not the Fifth, Mr. O’Connell, that’s the Ninth,” said Susan, feeling slightly pedantic.

“It’s the Fifth. I remember, ladies all in fine gowns, fetching first violinist, little hors d’œuvres during intermission.”

“Nope,” Susan could not believe how frustrating he could be, “Fifth is: ‘Bum bum bum bummmmm, bum bum bum bummmm’, not the same at all. Did they have singers?” she asked. “Singers would be the 9th.

“Yes, they had singers. Very pretty girl singer I remember.”

“Scoundrel.”

“She had a beautiful voice. I remember that, beautiful voice.”

“Then why didn’t you say that first, rather than focus on her appearance?”

“Yes, I definitely was focused on her appearance.”

Susan made a harrumphing noise.

“Didn’t those nuns train you?” he asked. “Never contradict or argue with the inmates?”

“No. Not at all. They said correct and contradict the inmates as much as you like. Besides which, you are hardly an inmate.”

“You’d be surprised. No, you’re right. They treat us very well. Four hots and a cot, three hots and a cot, something like that.”

“Three ‘hots and a cot.’”

“Well, I eat lots of snacks. ‘Three hots and a cot,’ just like Alcatraz. Here, we want to go to this park. Park with the sundial. Think you want Alameda, or is it Evans?”

After driving to the other side of Denver, they finally found Cranmer Park and its huge, stone, equatorial sundial towards which Mr. O’Connell made a beeline as soon as Susan had parked.

“This is where I proposed to Karen. Somehow I had gotten it into my head that this sundial had one of those sappy sundial slogans on it, ‘Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be,’ or some claptrap like that. Of course it doesn’t, only those instructions on how to use a sundial in the middle of a snowstorm. Still, a fairly romantic place for a proposal, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “We were poor then, poor again now. Of course it wouldn’t matter, if I could just find Karen.”

“You know,” he said on the way back to the car, “I won’t be needing this walker much longer.”

Susan didn’t know what to say.

“I figure I’ll be free of it in about a month.” He paused to catch his breath. “Physical therapy. Do it twice a week. I can feel my legs getting stronger all the time.”

“Oh,” she said, “Keep working on it.”

“You must be famished,” he said as they were pulling out. “Let me take you to lunch.”

“You don’t have to,” she answered, hoping she could just take him back to Little Sisters and then go home. “Isn’t it about time they start serving lunch there?” She was thinking of plans she had made with a friend.

“Oh no,” he answered, “I’ve got a much nicer place in mind. A place Karen and I used to go.”

As Mr. O’Connell directed Susan to 15th and Platte, she said, “I know this place, ‘My Brother’s Bar.’ My dad brings us here.” No sign visible to the street announced the presence of the bar. It sat in a one story, brick, corner building. One of the elderly Greek brothers, who still owned it, showed them to their table.

They sat, Susan on the bench in front of the windows fronting the street, Mr. O’Connell, after he had rattled and folded his walker, on the chair opposite. Susan looked at a young couple consuming burgers, the wife mashing French Fries and feeding them to their six month old. Mr. O’Connell was ordering.

“I’ll have this Steak Cabrini, and a pint of 40 Shilling, and we’ll get an order of fries, and rings to share.”

Susan ordered the Ragin’ Cajun Tuna sandwich.

“Steak Cabrini, like a Philly Cheesesteak except with the hot peppers. It was Karen’s favorite,” Mr. O’Connell was trying to get Susan’s attention back from looking at babies to looking at him. “You know, Mother Cabrini founded the Little Sisters.”

“She did not,” Susan corrected, “that was Jeanne Jugan.”

He laughed, “Just testing your knowledge. But she did come to Denver, Cabrini did.” He then proceeded to give Susan five minutes of local church history, all of which she knew, ending with, “You don’t see Karen here, do you?”

Susan had to use the Ladies room and to humor Mr. O’Connell, she did a circuit of the restaurant and the outdoor patio looking for Karen, spending a moment texting her friend Elizabeth cancelling their get-together.

It would even have been fun to come upon a suspect Karen, a tall old woman, perhaps wearing a brightly colored dress like in that photo, perhaps sitting under the painting of Mozart in the dark corner near the potbellied stove. No such luck. There were a couple of old women in the bar area, wearing silly red hats, drinking white wine and talking with animation. Neither looked like a Karen.

Susan imagined Monica, her college roommate with the forensics obsession, taking the photo and closely examining it, pretending as if she could magically age the picture in her mind, and ruling out these women as Karens. Susan did not need to do that. She knew they were not Karen.

Their meals had arrived and as she ate, Susan was reminded of an embarrassing thing her mother had told her about going off on a hunt to look up an old boyfriend just before she had married Susan’s father, not exactly the thing you wanted to hear from a parent. Her mother had given up when there were no results, married Susan’s dad quickly, and just as quickly became pregnant with Susan’s older brother Stephen. “Don’t get me wrong,” Susan’s mother had said, “I really love your father,” but a sense of regret had hung there.

“Oh no,” Mr. O’Connell was saying to the waitress, whose eyes were asking if he wanted another beer, “I need my wits about me. Just the check. You don’t want dessert, do you Susan?”

She didn’t. She was anxious to get home and give her friend Elizabeth a call, at least they could talk. Certainly this had to be Mr. O’Connell’s last stop.

“So,” Mr. O’Connell said when they bill came, “you think you could help me out a little bit? I seem to be short.”

Susan’s impatience got the better of her, “My father says you should not take people out to lunch unless you know you can afford it.”

Instantly, she regretted it. Mr. O’Connell looked crestfallen. “You idiot,” Susan said to herself, “He lives at the Little Sisters of the Poor. What do you think that means, Poor?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “here, let me put it on my credit card. I’ll hit my dad up harder next semester for my books. Really, I can handle it.”

“Well, I can leave cash for the tip,” he said.

“No, you keep it. You still need money for a haircut, right?” Although, she thought to herself, you’ll have to drag someone else into taking you.

As they left, Mr. O’Connell smiled broadly at the waitress, “a fine meal as always.”

He seems to have recovered his spirits, Susan thought. Well, it was almost over.

“I’ll have you back in plenty of time for Sister Anne. You still have an hour.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” Mr. O’Connell replied, “Wonderful.”

Susan did not like the way he was smiling as he got into the car, but she was determined to be nice in the fifteen minute drive up the hill.

“Since we have so much time,” he said, “I wonder if we might make one final try. One final attempt.”

“No Mr. O’Connell, I really have got to get you back. Sister Anne…”

“She won’t mind. She knows my ways. This place is really close to Little Sisters. Practically on the grounds so to speak. Ten minutes at most.”

“Alright, you only have ten minutes and no more.” Susan agreed as she still felt guilty about lunch.

Mr. O’Connell directed her driving. They passed Little Sisters and kept going on Twenty Ninth, she noted with some exasperation.

“It can’t be that near Little Sisters,” she said.

“You know, I wasn’t always poor,” he said obliquely. “Or if I was, it never hurt as much, Karen and I struggling together.”

“I’m sorry about the restaurant,” Susan said.

“I wasn’t referring to that. I just wanted to tell you something. Karen had her photography and I had my ceramics. You might not believe it, but I was a potter.”

“Like Harry.”

“What? Oh, hah.”

“What kind of pots?”

“Oh, all kinds. Not really just pots. Plates, saucers, tea cups. I had this idea that people would buy nice things, fancy things, not just the clunky, handcraft drivel you used to see.”

“So what happened?”

“Couldn’t find my market. People wanted to buy one or two pieces, sure, but one or two pieces doesn’t feed the family. I had the idea that I could sell wedding sets. Settings of eight to young couples.”

“Didn’t that work?”

“They weren’t buying what I was selling. Not the flavor of the day. Now, if my hands…” He looked down at his hands and Susan could see that they were misshapen and gnarled by arthritis.

Now she wanted to hear more—what his pieces had looked like, did he still have any of them, where he had had his studio. Knowing Mr. O’Connell had been an artist gave her a different perspective. He seemed like what her father would call a dreamer, and she had always been taken by, or as her father would say, “taken in by,” dreamers.

Unfortunately, Mr. O’Connell interrupted her attempts to ask more questions, “Here, here!”.

Susan glanced over and saw the wrought iron fence, the cottonwoods, the carmine peonies and the light blue irises, and the rows of polished white stones.

“The cemetery?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “I hate to think about it, but…”

“We had a daughter,” he continued, “Not Jack’s mother. Her name was Sarah, an S name, like Susan.” He smiled. “A lovely little girl. She was eight and died, something we didn’t even know was there. I hate to think about it, Karen alone there and visiting, alone.”

Susan felt it again, guilt at her impatience and a softening towards him.

“Alright,” she said, pulling a giant U-turn across three lanes of Wadsworth, narrowly missing a semi who laid hard on his horn. She took a right into the cemetery, facing the mausoleum. She’d last been there with her dad when he taught her to drive, a nervous crawl of five miles an hour, three or four scary bumps into the curb.

“Here, take a left. Little Sarah is over near Mary Chase.”

“Who?” Susan asked.

“Mary Chase, the writer. ‘Harvey,’ the giant rabbit. I remember taking Karen in my arms after the funeral and pointing it out to her. ‘See,’ I said ‘Mary Chase, the woman who wrote ‘Harvey.’ Remember how we laughed?’ It didn’t help.”

Mr. O’Connell had Susan park alongside of a section beneath a yew tree, and sure enough they passed the plain gravestone of Mary Chase. They walked the distance of half a block inward to an area not quite as crowded with the dead. Although Mr. O’Connell had left his walker in the car, his legs seemed to have gained new strength and he reached the gravestone he was seeking before Susan.

She looked towards the ground beyond him. There was a grave: Sarah Rosemary O’Connell, and a quick calculation showed she had been eight when she died in 1967. The more astonishing sight was beside it, not an old woman mourning, but another grave, still grass bare and dirt mounded, “Karen O’Connell, 1926 – 2015.”

Susan went up to Mr. O’Connell, “You knew?”

“I knew, and I didn’t know. No, that’s not true. I knew, but I didn’t want to face it. You wouldn’t have taken me to all those different places if you had known.”

“I…” Susan started to protest that of course she would have, but she knew that wasn’t true. She would have tried to pawn it off on another volunteer who also wouldn’t have had the time or the patience.

Mr. O’Connell spoke, “I’m sorry I tricked you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, a little bit sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she said, choking up, but just a little, for after all he had made her drive all over Denver, risking a fatal accident with a semi and running out of gas, and had made her miss a chance to shop with her friend for maybe the last time before she returned to college. “It was o.k. to get tricked.” And then a line came to her mind from a class she was taking, and she mumbled it to herself, “Arise, arise from Death, you numberless infinities.”

****

Photo credit: Donal McGrail

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