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In 1942, my grandpa died
and grandma never knew. She kept his heart
in letters, one each week; she never cried, 
just posted them, came back and sat. Apart
was how they'd been for years when he was there,
that stoic man and woman, duty-bound --
the letters brought them closer. All her care
twined sentences in lover's knots. She wound
a lock of hair in one, sent socks and Spam
and came back home to bake and knit. No word
returned. She cleaned, made marmalade and jam,
til 1946, November 3rd,
the postman brought no letter, just a pack:
one lock of hair, two socks, no husband back.

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