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It’s been over a decade since my parents first bought the house, but the garage looks as if it gets cleaned once every century. It may just be my imagination, but I’m sure that a colony - a community – of spiders lives in the farthest back reaches of that garage. Don’t blame them. It’s easy for a body to get lost in the musty air, the blank smell of dust and cement. Even the neighborhood squirrels know this, and exploit the never-sorted-through storage shelves during the winters.
The first time I saw my father cry, he had been talking to me and my brother out in the garage. A sunny day provided the backdrop as he had just been exchanging bitter words with my mother. We felt the discord, just as real as the dust motes in the air. Asked, like kids will, about his day, his friends, anything besides the pain in his face. We hoped he’d be able to smile and let the argument go. Just because we tried to laugh, doesn’t mean that