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I’m just sitting down to write when my mother descends out of a Winston-blue cloud, nosy-necked, squinting. Her head glints with bobby pins, skinned-tight and sectioned, mapped out like a city block, an argument for redlining, a gerrymander, aspirational, the way things ought to be. Her face is peeled clean as an egg, but her cowbird father who left her in the nest, ...


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My youngest brother runs away from home again the morning the baby robins fly from the nest.

All spring, I watch a mother robin build her nest under my deck. It rests next to the half-dozen hollowed-out husks abandoned seasons before. I wonder if she built those too, though I know it is unlikely—robins can live up to fourteen years, but the average life expect...


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Rajesh considers himself a man of few exceptions, for he was raised as such. His morning routine requires a piping-hot filter coffee with boiled milk, served in a steel cup inside of a rimmed steel saucer. He then pours a portion of coffee from the cup into the saucer to cool it, and slurps a few sips at a time. This is nonnegotiable, as respect should be, so he pine...


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What did I know of being a man, back in another century, as I sat in that bar off Massachusetts Avenue, with the older men talking about the Red Sox, and so-and-so’s wife passed on, the saint she was, and the way their kids were hanging on, or what about the weather? I didn’t listen to what I should have back then. No one talked about the Tr...


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Common descriptors from readers of working-class literature tend to devolve into one of two fields. The first, with words like “gruff,” “gritty,” and “crass,” tend to simply describe the economically depressed settings and the hardscrabble lives of the characters that call these spaces home. The reader glimpses the struggle and perseverance needed to haul a tired and...


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