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International Journal of Servant-Leadership

Abstract

The tedium of personal history, the stories and their repetitions. And then a body stripped of all sense of itself beyond the fundamentals: pain, hunger, whatever primitive needs keep it twisting in the night. Some days you believe you can will her back. Call her name, say key words—huckleberry, plate glass, maple—and she’ll come running like a child from the dark. Even now, ten years after her death, you believe it, fool that you choose to be over the cynic scoffing in ridicule.

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