Carol thought it best to throw everything away. The cream coloured couch, still bearing Joe’s baby footprints from afternoons spent twirling in the dirt, head pointed up toward the moon. He’d look back down and fall akimbo from giddiness. Echoing laughter. The fondue set and the slippers from Africa, now dulled from being wedged in the bottom of a cardboard box for years — they could go, too. Allen’s mother had bartered for them at a night market with a woman swathed in red cheesecloth. Carol never wore them. But she never wore Allen either, because it was uncomfortable. He didn’t fit.

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