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I'm concerned about what kind of mother I am, but the world's a lot worse than me. I carry my dad's beat up black plastic lunchbox. It's shape, like a barn with a round roof, reminds me of the 70's. My husband feels entitled to all the cancer jokes(more)
It squawked
Miles above me,
A flutter of wings,
A whooshing of air,

I was up for a moment (more)
I don't know what my dad looked for when he looked out the window. But he spent a long time there, every day, using one smouldering smoke to light the next. He never had work.

His arthritis was bad; all he could do was lean against the counter-top(more)