October 21, 2014

“Mother was preparing pork chops by pounding the raw meat with a hammer, piercing each piece of meat 50 times with a rusted nail because she said the extra iron enhanced the taste, made it have a better after-flavor that settled comfortably upon the tongue. I think of those times fondly. All the washing sounds and the pounding and the hammering happened in various parts of the house. How there was a water stain in the ceiling of my closet and if I squinted just enough, I could watch it grow. How sometimes I found my parents standing just inside the backyard door, staring out at the wooded area beyond the manicured lawns, their bodies almost transparent and so I thought they were ghosts shaped like my parents but then they would turn and frown at me before resuming their vigil. How while they watched the dark outside the glass windows, I would pour myself a glass of ice cold milk, then leave it on the counter without ever taking a single sip.”

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