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Mad Science Mother Love

My mother deserved better, but then I always had been an inferior child. I’d left her ashes in their dark urn–in a garage, extruding only the smallest amounts at Christmas, her birthday (ironically, on Valentine’s Day), and Mother’s Day, wearing the sigil of her love of my forehead like the mark of a curse, or

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W.O.M.

The world’s best rememberance: My wife’s grandfather died last week. He was 96 years old and had not shaved his beard in 30 years. Lately he’d taken to carrying business cards with his name and title printed on the front: Stephen Edward Eastman, W.O.M. “W.O.M.?” I asked him. “Weird Old Man,” he explained.

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