
My father plays a song aloud on Sundays, that begins with ‘Where’ve you been my blue-eyed girl?’ We scream on the other side, the next-door neighbor who is 65, (steals our rain-water overnight) and wakes to a full pee-bucket, the body of a whale, and balls of fart, giggling their way out, pours a barrel […]
from Brittle Paper http://ift.tt/2wg8mfD
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