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March 19, 2007
Claire collects tears in a mason jar that she keeps on the windowsill by the vase she always used for the white flowers he'd bring her on Monday mornings on his way to work. "To start the week off right," he'd say. "So no matter what else happens, at least you have this."

The same dozen white tulips have bowed their heads for 40 weeks. Their leaves sag like forgotten shawls. Their posture is that of mourning.

In 12 weeks, on the anniversary of his death, she will sprinkle them with the saved tears, hoping they'll revive symbolically.

They won't.