The Evening Meal.
My butcher father brought home a smell of fowl that no amount of Old Spice, Lava soap, or cigar smoke could disguise. Some nights his raspy skin was flecked with blood, or chicken feathers stuck to the back of his neck were set aflutter when the door closed behind him. Though he washed before dinner, the market was with us as he sat at the table, knife in hand. I watched his face flicker through vapors from the dinner platter, heard breath pass the bones of his broken nose, and waited. There might be a sigh, lowered brows, a smile, and then the smell would not matter anymore, might even vanish without a trace.
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|Date:||Jun 22, 2010|
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