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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2012-11-09 | | Those hours when I would sit at the kitchen table watching my mother cleaning the cupboard shelves, waiting for my father to return, from somewhere. Her cleaning looked desperate, like her face. "Once I was pretty", she would say. Yellow rubber gloves. I remember. Me sitting at the table. Watching her hands.
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