My name is Daisy. I am 83 years old, and I have been a widow for four months. Four months is not a long time when you measure it against sixty-three years of marriage. It is barely a breath. And yet it has stretched endlessly, wide and hollow, like a house with all the windows open in winter. Robert proposed to me on Valentine’s Day in 1962. We were twenty years old, living in a cramped student apartment just off campus. We shared a tiny kitchen with two other couples, and no…
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