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Gabriela Stiteler It was mild for January and I was out back cutting down the rhododendron that had been an eyesore since the day Paul and I bought the place: a Cape Cod about halfway down a dead-end street close enough to the ocean to smell the salt in the air. I’d been meaning to cut the thing down for a year and a half but then Paul got sick and illness shifts priorities and all those little lists he and I had cultivated over the years felt trivial. But with him dead and cremated and scattered discreetly over the