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One day my husband took a wrong turn and wound up on a dead end street on Half Shell in Old Nauvoo, smack in the middle of a salvage yard called The Way It Was, a place he revisited daily thereafter. Some people bring home strays. My Joseph brings salvage. Gifts, he says. Happy birthday. The salvage is for me. It started with a scale. He said he was trying to calibrate it, but I knew he was really monitoring my weight. The same time every morning he called me into our bathroom where I’d helped him haul it. “Don’t forget a penny!” It was a full-size step-on scale made by the Public Scale Company in Chicago. Six feet tall, a bright blue porcelain beauty. Across the top read: What You Should Weigh with a finger pointing to a slot Drop Coin Here. The face of the scale was round like a lollipop with a bright red arrow that showed your weight. Below the face of the scale was another sign with another finger pointing up. This said: You Should Know Your Weight. I was surprised the first time Joseph brought food into the bathroom. This wasn’t like him. He didn’t believe food should be anywhere but in the kitchen. There he was, though, biting into a sweet roll. He stood closer to me than usual. I was hungry from not enough food the day before

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41st Emerson Review  

The Emerson Review is a literary journal published by undergraduate students at Emerson College in Boston. The 41st issue was published in S...

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