I used to think I could see the edge of the world from the Walt Whitman bridge. Around the same spell, a black sheep would tell me scary stories before naptime. I fell asleep to clipped Italian and soap opera drama. We each had a place at the table-- I only ate chicken tenders drowned in ketchup ice-cream at eleven AM fingers sticky as I reached for more Hershey Kisses, for another hand of cards in the most loving games of war I've ever played. I was a card shark at that mottled kitchen table for years. But the evening, dotted with the golden glow of end-table lamps, heralded the arrival of a drive home five PM feeling ants under my skin. After we’d packed up and, the leftovers were placed gently on the passenger’s seat, my grandmother would wave from the porch. Her teeth-- large, false brown from all the coffee she’d drink shone in the fading light as she smiled.
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