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“The Language Spoken at Home”

The Antigonish Review Issue # 188

I skim over whole years of my life. Anything painful and it’s gone. Grade eleven is almost lost to me, except for the prickly, chemical taste of Tab. The year after my daughter was born is also hazy: t-shirts stained with rings of breast milk and sudden, uncontrollable rages. Otherwise, a blur. I come by this honestly, my mom would say. My family’s coping mechanism of choice is selective amnesia.

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