What happens when they leave is that the houses fold up like paper dolls, the children roll up their socks and sweaters and tuck the dogs into little black suitcases. Across the street the trees are unrooting, the mailboxes rising up like dandelion stems, and eventually we too float off, the houses tucked neatly inside our purses, and the children tumbling gleefully after us, and beneath us the base has disappeared, the rows of pink...
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