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by John Peter Beck

During dishes, she found
herself in a new country,
startled by the silence
in her joints.
Juanita had mapped
her territory well.
She had passed seventy years,
marking and mastering
each step and angle
in the small house,
a tiring calculus
measured in sharp hurt.
I phoned. She said
the surgery was over,
the knees were new,
the pain was gone.
She baked brownies
in celebration,
vacuumed the whole house
all at one time.

Photo courtesy of Suad Kamardeen
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