
My sweet red-haired Auntie had no children of her own. She had a high voice with a screeching quality to it, like nails on a chalkboard. She and Uncle Paul lived in Detroit, a short walk from the Belle Isle Bridge. They hosted the Thanksgiving dinner at which my parents met. Inside their front porch a notepad was hung next to the door, so you could leave a note if they were not home when you came to visit. Their house no longer exists. Indeed, I think even the street is gone now.

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