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The Memorialist

The heart-shaped pink granite headstone he had picked up south of Boston made it hard for Alex to sidle his pickup truck into a parking spot near his wife’s apartment.
It’s nearly 6:00 p.m., six hours before my thirtieth birthday. I’ve been running on the treadmill for about thirty-five minutes, having arrived here from school, grad school that is. Running is the thing I enjoy most when working out.
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