In the air the sulfur smell of coal from the furnace my father stoked all winter long in a quietness that grew around him like an aura. Smell of foundry in my face when he picked me up wildly over his head, smell of soap on his neck when he held me, his thick arms snaked around me, the whiskey on his lips like a wish. Through the storm of years there is no way back, through the bloody angles, to the light around his body.
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