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  • My grandfather loved his wife enough to move several miles to this coastal town, away from the home they raised their family in. He took wheelbarrows full of beach rocks up to their house, every Sunday, and built a welcoming stonewall around their cottage.

    My father loved my mother enough to buy a house in that same beach community, across from her always-talkative sister. He complained about the salt air rusting the cars and the pigeon watchdogs on the roof.

    My mother loved my father enough to get him out of the projects he grew up in, and into an adult phase of life. “You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the boy,” she would warn me years later.

    My parents loved each other enough and paid no attention to the picnic table they used as a dining set and saved their pennies to start their family. They started with a goofy, but loveable golden retriever—blond like my mother.

    My dog, Molly, loved me so much that she would sit watching me nap with her nose wedged between the slats of my crib. Molly would trot down to the ocean for swims in mid-January, braving the icy cold sea.

    I loved my Dog so much that when I was a toddler, stomping around in red pajamas that zipped up the front and encased my feet, I would try to teach her the things I knew. “Eye,” I would say; and half of my finger would disappear into her eye and she wouldn’t flinch, because that’s what true love is: knowing the other person has the best intentions, and never means to hurt you.
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