Ona Gritz Grace Tonight, we are the ones you glimpse through a lit window, our kitchen smelling delicious as I saute onions, our radio playing song after song we love. I add slices of sweet sausage to the pan, stir angel hair in a tall pot above a blue flame. In a rush of cool spray, my husband washes hearts of romaine. Our hips brush and we linger. He reaches for salad bowls stored over my head and leans in. Tonight the moon that hovers over this house is so golden, so full, it resembles a rare coin.

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