She died the day before Thanksgiving, near where I was born.  Then I stood in an Umbrian town, perched high on volcanic rock, where it has been since the Etruscans, where there is thick the smell of woodstove in cold air that I know from where I was born, and where I stood listening to the highway at night as Italians hurtle up and down the A1.  These distances and what crosses them.

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