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2002-06-20

Doris Duke
B. 11.22.12 Somerville, New Jersey / D. 10.28.93 Beverly Hills
Heart Trouble

Since I was last in Murray Hill, the hummingbird flicker of the fluorescent bulb over the bathroom mirror has become a fruit bat flap�
suggesting that I�m not the only one who ever turns it on.
The new clock�maritime, antique, undeniably mantel-enhancing�it�s a funeral souvenir. Some uncle�s widow, nearer than dear, lately revealed as an efficient list-maker more thoughtful than his family had imagined: the flawless matching of her �whom-should-haves� to those �of hers� which each had longest coveted is an astonishment to the entire clan.
And on the top refrigerator shelf, the unfinished bottle of soya-something drink which I glimpsed before it was discarded�well why not.
From the previously undeigning strongholds comes wonder��How on earth did she know?� �She remembered,� the looser-lipped breathe.
She reasoned perceived and existed�alone.
Then all at once they miss her, painfully: sad, kind-of-mean kitty, entertaining herself with her jottings; for each, the perfect-gift grin she must have worn just hangs there, an icon which directs an unexpected grief.
Yes it�s clear�since I was last on the scene a strange set of migratory fingertips has been here; preening, feeding; exploring all the lights and lacquered brass and earlobe piercings. At least I hope so.

Consolation Site: Don�t Ask; Don�t Tell; Don�t Forget the Camels

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