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Tag: Carolina Oates

Essays 2

A Letter to My Mother, Carolina Oates, on Her 78th Birthday

The old farmhouse was razed years ago, the very site of its foundation filled with earth, all trace of its existence obliterated. Yet I see it clearly, and the lilac tree that grew close beside the back door, a child-size tree into which I climbed, a dreamy child given to solitude in places near the house, near you.

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