By Meagan Solis
It had been a couple years since my grandfather died. I was driving my grandma to a restaurant for dinner, and since it was almost Thanksgiving Day, few places were open in the small port town where she had lived my whole life. Eventually, I saw a small, crumbling Mexican joint, the kind that promised sticky vinyl menus and stale chips in red baskets. We pulled into the parking lot and I helped her out of the car. “Thank you, dear,” she said.
We sat ourselves in a booth and a waitress who smelled like kitchen grease took our drink orders: sweet tea for Gram, coffee and water for me. “Coffee?” my grandma said.
“I’ve been driving all afternoon,” I snapped. I couldn’t help it–I was grumpy and the salty air was giving me a headache. I missed the thick humidity of Houston; here the wind whipped my hair into a coarse tangle.
“Hmph,” she said, pursing her lips together. “No need to be rude, Veronica.” She peered at her menu through round lenses. “I hope the shrimps are good here.”
We ordered shrimp tacos and extra guacamole, which I abandoned after being unable to stir the brown out of it. I drank three cups of the gritty instant coffee and was starting to feel a little better until Gram spoke, a rubbery pink shrimp held in a little curl between her fingers. “Your grandfather came to me in a dream. He wants me to dump his ashes.”
I signaled the waitress for the check. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to wait until your father and uncle get here,” she said. “We’ll do it then.”
“Are you finished?”
“Happy holidays,” the waitress said as we left the dim restaurant.
In the car Gram looked out the passenger seat window, her face tilted towards the rows of windmills churning in the fields. I didn’t feel like talking but she kept interrupting the silence with deep sighs. “What?” My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.
“I always dream him young,” she said, still staring out into the fields. “Like when we first met. But this time I dreamt him old and skinny. That’s how I knew he was serious.” She sat up straighter in her chair and mimicked the raspy drawl of my grandfather. “Clemence, you gotta let me go. You can’t hang on to me forever.”
“That’s not your end of the deal,” I said. “You’re supposed to get mixed up and thrown together. Under the magnolia tree. He told everyone that.”
There was a brief pause before she said “Now he’s telling me different.”
“We’re here,” I said, jerking the parking brake up.
My grandmother’s house creaked as we entered it and before I could make it into the living room I nearly collided into my grandfather’s urn, a behemoth of maroon marble sitting on a pillar-like end table. I skirted the urn, trying to avoid looking at the inscription of his name in gold letters.
“I’m going to put my suitcase upstairs and freshen up,” I told Gram, and when I turned back to look at her she was standing in front of the maroon urn, stroking it with her fingertips.
“Okay,” she said.
When I got into the bedroom I sprawled across the double bed and inhaled the musty scent of the quilt. My parents and sister would arrive in a few hours to fill the quiet place with chatter and the smell of home. It was the first Thanksgiving we were spending in Aransas Pass since before my grandfather died and it was the first in two years I was spending it without my boyfriend, Michael. Already I missed him and his family’s lavish Thanksgivings; his mother would be ironing monogrammed napkins and I could see his brother and father planning the wines for the upcoming feast. His family was loud; they all had the kind of speaking voices that would embarrass me in a restaurant, always shouting without realizing it. In him I found it endearing. I craved his loud voice and was proud that someone so loud could love someone like me, someone quiet. The first time I joined him for Thanksgiving I had asked his mother who was going to get to break the wishbone and all she had said was “Oh, honey.” There, I enjoyed myself, surrounded by elegant noise.
I flipped onto my back and looked at the unicorn puzzle hanging on the wall, held in its frame with a thin coating of glue. It was the kind of image I loved at eight but loathed now at twenty-four. Without sitting up I groped for my phone. The battery was almost dead but I dialed Michael’s number regardless.
He answered on ring three. “Hello,” he said. “How was the trip?”
I lowered the volume. “The drive was okay,” I said. “My grandma is already being weird.”
“Ronnie, you’ll only be there for a few days. Then we’ll be back to reality and you’ll complain about how much you miss your family.” I could hear playfulness in his voice. I imagined him stretched out on a bed too, rumpled and cute in athletic shorts and a plain white tee shirt. He would smile, cupping the phone to his ear with one hand, occasionally scratching the fluff below his belly button with the other.
“I just miss you,” I said.
A car’s slammed door jolted me out of accidental sleep. I sat up, rubbing my jaw, and before I could register what was happening my sister was barging into the room, bumping her duffel bag against the doorframe.
“Why can’t we stay in a hotel like normal people?” she said, throwing her stuff onto the floor.
I got up to hug her. Our bodies fit together awkwardly; despite being older than Olivia my frame was thin and boyish where hers was plump and voluptuous.
Downstairs my parents had sunk into the couch, their feet released from the matching tennis shoes they wore on long trips. “And here’s Veronica,” Gram announced as I entered the room, as if they had never seen me before.
My parents grinned but didn’t move. “Hey, Ron,” my dad said. Gram stiffened; she was the only one who insisted on calling me Veronica. My mom said “I noticed your registration sticker is expired, you need to get that taken care of.”
“Hi,” I said back.
“We were just divvying up Thanksgiving duties,” Gram said.
“Straight to work,” Dad said sarcastically. Driving made him irritable, too.
I sat on the arm of the couch and surveyed the room. The furniture seemed carefully chosen yet still haphazard: the couch was a touch too large for the space, the chairs too spindly. A big silent television played Wheel of Fortune reruns, yet the focal point of the room was still my grandfather’s urn, which watched us all from its elevated space. I thought of my grandfather in his last days, frail and quiet, with dried out lips. The massive urn seemed faintly mocking in its bigness. Around me my family talked about the side dishes and my cousin who was having a baby. Olivia said, “I’m not having any if I can help it.” My parents laughed: Olivia had come out as a lesbian her freshman year of high school.
“One last thing,” my Gram said. She turned to face my father. “I’ve decided to let your father go. We’re going to distribute his ashes while you and your brother are here.” She sniffled. “Who knows when you’ll both be under my roof again.”
I leaned back, anticipating the argument that was bound to happen. But all my dad said was, “Sure, Ma. Whatever you want.”
“Are you joking?”
Everyone turned and stared at me. My ears burned hot but I continued. “She says he came to her in a dream. But what about what he wanted when he was alive?” My mouth turned hard and cruel. “The other night I dreamt about horseback riding. I didn’t run and buy a pony.” I thought I saw a smile twitch on Liv’s face.
Gram cleared her throat. “You don’t get a say in the matter.”
“Which is bullshit,” I told her, then I walked out of the room.
Outside the night was warm and breezy. My grandmother owned a patch of land across from a field that had oil rigs living on it like giant metal animals, pumping silently into the earth. I made my way down the white porch steps and started off towards the trees planted a ways off in front of the house. When I got to the largest one, an evergreen magnolia, I stopped and sat near the base of the trunk. The tree wasn’t flowering, but the spicy smell of the thick leaves perfumed the air. The way I was sitting I could see my grandmother’s house, all of the windows yellow with light, the porch wrapping around it like an apron. No one had followed me. They were probably all still sitting exactly where I had left them, their polite conversation skimming over the outburst like a dragonfly on a pond. I closed my eyes and leaned against the tree, taking deep breaths, letting the thick air fill my lungs.
I had always associated my grandfather with trees. He was strong and sturdy, his light skin burnt leathery from working in the hot sun, like bark. My first memory was of him tying a swing to a branch and then pushing me high into the air. I trusted the branch to hold, and I trusted him. His magnolia trees were special, a symbol of devotion to Gram. The story was that he had promised to plant a giant magnolia in front of the first house he built her. “We made it,” the tree would say, thrusting it’s foliage into the Texas sky.
I sat there for a long time. When I went back to the house, everyone was asleep, except Olivia, who was reading in bed.
“Have you read this?” she asked as I changed into pajamas. I glanced up; she was reading Murakami’s South of the Border, West of the Sun.
“Couldn’t get into it,” I lied.
I pulled the covers over my head and listened to Liv’s occasional sighs, the rustle of her pages. I thought of the book’s ending, with the main character pressing his head into his hands until someone rests a hand on his shoulder.
My uncle, aunt, and four cousins arrived early Thanksgiving morning. In Gram’s tiny kitchen I poured half-and-half into cauldrons of steaming potatoes. Gram, uncle and aunt stayed out of the way; they were notoriously bad cooks and my mom prided herself on having two daughters who were whizzes in the kitchen. Olivia sang while she laid strips of bacon across the turkey’s breast to keep it moist in the oven and I watched the cranberries bubbling like molten rubies in their pot.
Occasionally a cousin would come in to see what my sister, mom and I were doing. “I haven’t been able to keep meat down,” the pregnant one said. I looked into her young face–she was barely nineteen.
“Gross,” Liv muttered.
In the living room my uncle and dad sat bored on the couch as everyone watched the parade. Gram had told my uncle about her dream and he seemed to be ignoring her. When he got up to head outside I followed him down the porch and around to the back of the house near the toolshed.
He was lighting a cigarette. When he saw me he offered the pack and I took one.
“Don’t let them see you,” he said, holding out his lighter. “They’d have a crap attack.” My grandfather had died of lung cancer.
“Tastes like guilt,” I said, and we both laughed. For a while we smoked in silence.
He squinted into the distance and said “What do you think he would have wanted to do?” I could tell from his grimace that he was thinking about my grandmother’s announcement.
“Watch the game instead of the parade,” I said, flicking ash.
He lit a second cigarette. “You were his favorite. Out of all of us.”
“I know,” I said. I crushed the cigarette butt under my shoe.
We stood for a while longer, listening to the wind rustling through the dry grass. I thought of the night we all waited in the hospital for my grandpa to die. My dad, uncle and I were the only ones in the room. The three of us were zoning out until, in a burst of energy, my grandpa sat up and said, “I love all of you.” He stretched his hand out towards me and let out a rasping laugh. “But I love her the best.”
I remembered the look my uncle gave me that night. Like a mongoose would give a snake.
“I’ve got to go help with dinner,” I said, and started the walk back towards the house. He made no move to follow.
“Who opened the oven door?” Liv shouted. “You assholes collapsed my meringues!”
“They’ll still taste fine,” my mom told her. “Besides, none of your cousins know what a meringue is.”
We looked into the living room: the four cousins were splayed on the floor, and all of them were either texting or staring at the television. My dad and uncle were listening to Gram recount her dream again. “He meant it,” she kept repeating.
“And they say we’re the weird ones,” Liv whispered dramatically. My mom laughed and beckoned us towards the pantry.
“To get us through dinner,” she said, unveiling a bottle of Maker’s Mark. We passed it around for a while until my mom’s cheeks turned pink. “Let’s do this,” she said, and we marched out to set the table.
As I doled out the cutlery I thought of elementary school Thanksgivings, with all of the white kids in construction paper pilgrim’s hats and all of the brown ones with feathers in their hair. Our teachers lecturing us on friendship, helping us dip our hands in paint to make prints we’d turn into turkeys. I remembered one of my childhood friends—a small withered boy named Jason, who never got to play dodgeball in P.E. because of his weak heart. During our annual Grandparent’s Day I remembered him sitting alone, watching his cafeteria stuffing turn into a stiff brown lump in front of him.
“Young man, come sit with us,” my grandfather said. He scooted closer to me to make room, and I caught a whiff of tobacco, a toasty warm smell. Reluctantly, Jason pushed his styrofoam tray towards us, but soon he was laughing and leaning into my grandfather. I had been proud that on Grandparent’s Day, I had had enough to go around.
Now, when we set the table we left the seat at the head deliberately empty. Like the giant urn, it was a mean reminder of what little space he’d taken up in his final years, his body mass sucked away by the cruel force of cancer. To allot such a generous table setting was pointless both then and now. On Grandparent’s Day, he’d eaten two trays of cafeteria fare, including my and Jason’s cooked carrots. But on his last Thanksgiving, he could barely force down a spoonful of extra smooth potatoes.
“Don’t look so sour,” my mom murmured to me as I circled the table. “You look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”
“Sorry,” I said. My chest swelled with sudden feeling. What was Michael doing now? Did he miss me? Did he even notice I wasn’t there? “Holidays make me emotional,” I told her. The year before, I had hidden in the wine cellar and cried after dinner.
“Get over it,” Liv said, and my mom said, “This is why I shouldn’t let you drink.” We resumed setting the table. In the living room, my dad and uncle cheered: they’d reclaimed the television and were watching the game. Liv sang the opening verses of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and chided me when I didn’t fill in the boy part.
“Food’s ready,” my mom called out.
Gram stood at the foot of the table and we gathered around her. The seat at the head was empty, although I took the spot next to it. This way, I was between the vacant corner, next to Liv, and across from one of the cousins. He was around fifteen and I couldn’t remember ever having an extended conversation with him.
“Let’s say grace,” Gram said, and we clasped hands and bowed our heads. I kept my eyes open. “Thank you for this meal we are about to receive,” Gram started, and I looked at the members of my family: Liv, scrunching her brows together, my mom, still pink from cooking and whiskey, my dad, lines embedded in his forehead I still wasn’t used to. “Please keep us all in good health,” Gram was saying, and my uncle cleared his throat, a smoker’s habit.
“When do you read the Bible?” I was eleven, and fixated on the idea of God. Was he really watching me all the time? How could he keep track of me and everyone else? Why did he get mad at Eve and make women bleed every month, like Gram had told me? God’s motivations seemed confusing. I couldn’t get the image of a Far Side comic out of my mind, where a white-bearded God exclaims, “Oops!” when the lid falls off of a can labeled ‘assholes’ that he’s sprinkling over a clay earth. If he was God, I remembered thinking, why didn’t he see that coming?
“I read it in the morning, before you wake up,” Grandpa said.
“Do you believe it?”
“Sometimes,” Grandpa had told me. “Now go help your Granny make me breakfast.”
“Don’t call me Granny,” Gram shouted from the kitchen, and my grandfather started laughing until he dissolved into coughs.
Later that year, my grandfather started his decade-long battle with cancer. I had hidden in my bedroom and raised my middle finger in the air, towards the ceiling. “Screw you, God,” I’d said, and I had closed my eyes, waiting to be struck by lightning. That year, in school, when most of my classmates favored The Chronicles of Narnia, I reached for A Series of Unfortunate Events. Aslan left a bitter taste in my mouth; I loved the disguises and twisted wit of Count Olaf, the reality that God and grownups didn’t care.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Gram finished, and we all crossed ourselves and said, “Amen.”
It fell silent as we passed around platters of food. As I scooped out cranberry sauce, letting it overflow into my potatoes, I became aware of the way my pants were too loose, the fabric jutting up in the crotch. My mother insisted I got a slice of turkey with a generous helping of rendered bacon crisped on the top. “It’s good for you,” she said, her eyes following my sharp wrists as I reached for the plate.
“Everything is delicious,” Gram said, and everyone agreed. “You girls have really outdone yourselves.”
The pregnant cousin was glaring at the remains of the steaming turkey. In a flash I hallucinated: me, stealing the turkey and broiling it to dust in the oven, then switching the charred remains with the contents of the marble urn. I would laugh as my grandmother unknowingly poured poultry ashes into the wind. My mouth filled with spit, tantalized by the thought.
“Ronnie?”
The family had all shifted in their seats to look at me. Helplessly, I looked across the table to my teenaged cousin. He let out a rattling sigh. “It’s your turn,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What you’re thankful for.”
“Oh!” I stuffed a mouthful of green bean almondine into my mouth, buying time. “Hmm,” I said, chewing mock-thoughtfully. Swallowing was painful. “I’m thankful for…yams.”
Liv snorted.
“Yams?” Gram said tightly. “You can’t be thankful for yams.”
“Why not?” I shot back. “They’re a nice color, they get caramelized in the pan, they—”
“You’re unbelievable,” Gram whispered, cutting me off. She stood up. “Is no one in this family thankful for me?”
“Jesus Christ,” my uncle said as she burst into tears.
Immediately, the cousins snatched their plates from the table and filed into the living room to eat in front of the TV. “What is wrong with you?” my mom hissed at me.
Me?
In the other room, the maroon urn slept through the mess.
“You should have come with me.”
After Gram’s outburst, everyone finished eating scattered around the house. I was in the upstairs bathroom, sitting cross-legged and fully clothed in the bathtub. A slice of pecan pie was perched on the edge of the tub and every once in a while I pried a nut from the crust and nibbled on it. In my ear, a slightly drunken Michael exhaled. His breath would be dark and heavy from the wine his family indulged in all Thanksgiving Day. It was like a party trick, my ability to tell what he’d been drinking from his breath: piney with gin, spicy and thick with whiskey, acrid from cheap beer.
“You really should have come with me,” I said again. “I can’t take this alone.”
“Hey,” he said. It was a refrain of his when I was upset. He had used to utter a full sentence: Hey, everything is going to be okay. But he said it so often it had shortened to Hey.
“It’s all so dramatic.” I reached for another pecan.
“You like dramatic.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed. “You’re gonna make it out alive.”
“Say it.” My lip was turned out and quivering. “Say what you always say.” I was sniffling now.
“Hey, babe,” he said, surprised by my tears, his voice like a hug. “You really are going to be okay.”
The house was getting dark: the sun was finally setting, probably as exhausted as I was. My mom was packing food into plastic containers, occasionally slipping a morsel of something into her mouth. The aunt and cousins had left immediately after dinner, piled into their dusty station wagon. Liv had turned off the television and was stretched out on the couch. A plate of brownies smothered in Cool Whip was balanced on her thigh, and she was thumbing through the last section of her Murakami book. “She disappeared,” she said as I came into the room. “What kind of ending is that?”
“Where’s Dad?”
Liv cast her eyes downward. “Dunno,” she said.
There was a crash from the kitchen. My mom was suddenly behind me, wiping a glass dish with a tea towel.”Ron! — Why don’t you come help me put away the desserts?” She looked flustered, her long braid frizzing at the end.
The silence of the house. Olivia’s uncomfortable avoidance of my stare. My mother’s shrill invitation to sort meringues, brownies, pies.
My stomach turned to oil. I spun around and saw it: the white end table was empty. A square of brighter white, where the sun or dust hadn’t been able to penetrate for years, outlined where the urn once was.
In the hospital, my grandfather had waited to die, chosen his moment carefully. I had been pushing quarters into a vending machine, my uncle was outside to smoke, my dad on a payphone with my mother. As I kicked the machine, trying to force a snack to fall, a nurse in Tinkerbell scrubs shuffled past, half-running towards his room. With a balled up fist, I banged the side of the machine. A second nurse, then a doctor, shuffled past, doing the same half-run towards my grandpa’s room. That’s when I realized what was going on: they were obligated to run, but no use sprinting—he had already been dead for a few minutes.
Gram, Dad, and my uncle were silhouetted against the dusky night, their forms melting into the branches of the magnolia tree. Through the living room window I could make out Gram, barely managing to hold the urn, tipping its contents into the soil. As the ashes hit the ground, a cloud of dust gathered, swirling around their ankles.
“She thought only his sons should be there,” my mom said.
Like Grandpa, Gram had chosen her moment carefully, had waited until I was nowhere to be found. I imagined flinging open the door, sprinting barefoot into the cloud of ashes. Wrenching the urn from her frail arms, clutching it to my chest like a football, running out beyond the magnolia cluster, into the fields where the oil rigs pumped relentlessly on. Gram said that he had told her what to do in a dream. It still felt wrong. I knew my grandpa, the real him, would have wanted me to be there as his remains joined the dark soil he had tilled and coaxed into producing those magnolias.
Instead, I took the stairs two by two, up into the bedroom my grandfather had built by hand. It shouldn’t have mattered, the ashes; his soul was in every nail of the house, parts of him sleeping behind sheets of drywall, fibers of his being nestled in the insulation. But we’d been so close in life, and ever since he had died he’d eluded me. In his house with the wrap-around porch and cluster of trees I was always half-expecting him around the corner, expecting to see him sitting downstairs in the kitchen in the impossibly early mornings with his Dallas Cowboys mug and over-easy eggs. Didn’t she understand that I needed the physicality of it all, the ashes, the wind, the urn’s shifted weight, for me to wake up from my own horrible dream, the dream where he was still somewhere close yet avoiding me altogether?
I wrapped my body around a pillow and pulled the quilt over my head. It wasn’t until then, shrouded in darkness, did I allow myself to cry.
The drive home was particularly lonely. My parents hadn’t argued about me leaving a day early, and Liv packed a cooler of leftovers for me to take back. “You need to eat more,” she said, poking my stomach.
Before I left I sought out Gram to say goodbye. It was obligatory; now that I was older, I was constantly aware that each goodbye was closer to the last. She was sitting in the middle of her king sized bed, sorting through the contents of a wooden box. She looked like a child in the middle of a desert, the bed stretching endlessly around her. When she saw me hovering in the doorway she said, quietly, “Come here.”
She made no move to stand, so awkwardly I climbed on top of the bed, crawling toward the center where she sat. I sat facing her and pulled my legs under me, like I was five again and she was going tell me a story, one of the ones that started with, “When I was a little girl…”
Without speaking she reached for my left hand. She turned it in hers, examining it. I was surprised to see that the shape of our hands, our fingers, were the same—hers knotted with arthritis, but both sets slender with long nail beds. She slipped something past my knuckle and said, “I knew they’d be a perfect fit.”
Glinting on my finger were her wedding rings, the engagement band modest, with flecks of diamond gathering in the center to create a nest of shimmer.
“I don’t need them anymore,” she said.
Instead of the loud wails she gulped out at the dinner table the day before, she let out silent tears. Her body trembled and when I reached towards her to place a hand on her shoulder the rings on my finger sparkled like fresh snow.
The roads were empty, and I imagined all of the commuters postponing their inevitable trips home, spreading cold potatoes on bread to make leftover sandwiches, playing cards with their families. The small blue velvet ring box was in the pocket of my jeans. I had no idea what Gram did with the big maroon urn. It hadn’t returned to the end table.
My apartment smelled like old incense and stale air. I left the front door open and dragged my stuff into the living room; the ratty suitcase, the cooler of food. Michael would be here in a few hours. I put the velvet box in my medicine cabinet, but that felt disrespectful, so I moved it to my treasure box I still had from a childhood Christmas. Nestled in with the ticket stubs and knick-knacks, the box seemed like my grandfather himself: commanding attention, sturdy among the nonsense.
Soon the suitcase was unpacked. In the bedroom I lit a cinnamon candle, not for romance, but for the faint light I hoped would keep my sleep lighter. It didn’t help. I didn’t wake until I felt the weight of the bed shift and Michael was there, warm and heavy on top of me, enveloping me in a full-body hug.
He kissed my neck and tried to brush my hair back, but no hair was there to meet his touch. “Woah,” he said, looking at me in the flickering light.
I nestled deeper into the bedclothes and pulled him with me. When I had situated our bodies, his warmth pressed into my back, I fell into a deeper sleep.
The night Gram had poured the ashes I had slipped out of bed, being careful not to disturb Liv. With my fingers trailing against the wall, I made my way through the dark house and into the bathroom. To ensure that no light slipped from the crack underneath the door, I pushed a towel against the empty space.
I inspected my reflection in the mirror carefully. My hair hung like curtains on either side of my face, and someone had carved out dark semi-circles beneath my eyes. My mouth was my best feature, but my lips were chapped.
In the vanity’s drawer I found a sharp pair of scissors. They were old-fashioned, with silver handles and tapered blades. It felt entirely natural to slip them onto my fingers, to hold out each wavy lock of hair taut and snip through them an inch away from my scalp. The locks collected in the sink basin, curling towards each other. Soon I could feel artificially cool air blowing on the back of my neck. The tips of my fingers found a final curl behind my ear, and that got snipped away too.
I scooped up the hair from the sink and used my nightshirt to hold the strands, like a child collecting wildflowers might. Then I tiptoed down the staircase and went out the front door.
The wind explored my scalp as I jogged towards the magnolias, still protecting the hair in my makeshift apron. Every few feet I turned and looked back at Gram’s house. It stood against the indigo sky and watched my figure in the dark.
When I approached the largest tree the wind picked up, and the leaves whispered above my head. I hadn’t bothered putting on shoes and so I ground my toes into the soil. The wind was gusting now, flapping my loose shirt and shaking the leaves into applause. With the wind in my ears I let my shirt pocket open and the hair flew away from me, into the field, carried through the air like the tufts of a dandelion. With both hands now free, I lifted my arms and closed my eyes. I pretended that the wind would carry me away too.
“Under the Magnolia Tree” received the 2014 Timothy Green Literary Excellence Award in Prose.
Meagan Solis is a writer living in Austin, Texas. Her work has been featured in Raw Paw, the Sorin Oak Review, Skin to Skin Magazine, and New Literati. She has her degree in English Literature from St. Edward’s University.
Photo by Jasmine Kim
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