By Mary Buckheit
Page 2

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

There are things about my childhood that I will never be able to shake. Patterns that were as predictable as the seasons. For instance, every night after dinner in winter months like these, as snow blanketed the backyard, my dad would drink down his last swallow, then take his finished plate in from the table to the kitchen sink. He'd thank my mother for the feast with a kiss on the cheek, then open the latch to the basement door and descend the wooden stairs. Every single night. I remember ...

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