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Origin Stories

He built a greenhouse: clear walls, cathedral ceiling. He smoked pipes and talked peppers, red peppers. He looked at my mother in yellow polyester shorts, her pink skin hot and long below them, covered in aloe. One day, some kids stole the pampas grass. My mother chased them down the street. Pregnant, out of breath, she saw the Scott & White, the hospital on the far hill. She saw it plain, clean and forbidding, and held her belly. After labor, as always, he washed his hands and... Read More