By Heather Rolland

I was looking for my grandparents’ wedding photos when I opened the box. In it lay a collection of my husband’s odds and ends, damp and filthy: a box of condoms; a tan leather handgun holster splotched with mildew; a white cotton baseball cap with a logo I didn’t recognize; an old Chronogram magazine; a new-looking Artie Traum CD; a lot of white cotton rope, piled, not wound into a hank

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