Maggie Would Have Gladly Erased Herself Into the Lushness of the Sunshine, the Flowers, the Trees

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Sometimes a joy would overwhelm her, a joy so inexplicable that she had no reference to describe it. It was a kind of knowing, a fleeting sense of being part of everything, the air, the sunshine, the stunning blues and greens and pinks, the dusty smell of the road, and the pert smell of grass that meant something sharp and new. Once she saw a cloud of yellow butterflies bat themselves in a dapple of wings and light off into the woods. Giddy she thought, giddy, giddy, that is what it means, that floating, that ridiculous beauty. She would walk into the field and twirl, her dress billowing out around her, whirling and dizzy, happy, so happy.

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