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Tweet 1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a rear . . . → Read More: Revenants Tweet I She wears her hair in pigtails every day, even though it’s uncomfortable, even though she hates it. When he sneaks up from behind and tugs twice on the left one, it translates roughly to “I love you” in a secret language spoken soundlessly by embarrassed failing fathers everywhere. II She plays the piano for . . . → Read More: Beauty Tweet Gangly boy, Indian style by the bent and beaten accordion door of the townhouse garage. Knocking off surrounding shingles, playing ricochet—”catch” takes two—with a fuzzed-out, soggy yellow tennis ball ‘til he loses it to traffic. Mother works a second shift tonight, so he will make blue-boxed pasta again. The five pm fathers return to neighborhood . . . → Read More: Father Tweet After a while, he went to the extent of renting two beds, twin pressboard dressers; a larger apartment, as well. He said support was paid up to date and the troublesome custody battle had come to an end. All of this means, he believes, that no one could doubt his daughters—estranged, now teenaged—are really coming . . . → Read More: Elaborate Act Tweet Phil, the foreman, starts his truck and it coughs with the exhausted guttural roar of a lifelong smoker. Wheels waist high spray gravel back into aluminum siding, into my face. Noontime traffic in this part of town, I’ve got fifteen minutes before he returns. Black-smeared, paint-spattered arms will cradle foot-long grinders and Gatorade for associates . . . → Read More: Pinioned Tweet 1. The Father The burial isn’t the first time the father has seen his son, but it may as well be. Nine months after delivery, he told his son’s mother he’d never wanted children. He stood with the woman on the sunlit front porch of their townhouse. “I’m sorry,” he said. “All babies look like . . . → Read More: The Kind of Man Who Tweet Remy Mallory’s father has been dead four years by the time Remy starts noticing him everywhere: the supermarket, the Laundromat, the Seven-Eleven. Remy sees a convincing permutation of his father in nearly every man past fifty; he recognizes them. Dad has become a businessman. That’s dad and he’s retired. R.L. Mallory was a wreck of . . . → Read More: Hibakusha Tweet 1. I fold my knees up to my chest and turn onto my side, sort of half fall onto the carpet before I can think about how dirty it is, how long it’s been since it was vacuumed. When this occurs to me, I upright myself, take an antiseptic towelette from the box by the . . . → Read More: Of My Own Free Will |
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