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21 Manong Jose, While Cleaning His Last Window Before Coffee, Sees Fidelito and Is Pleased Though Wary They’ve come off the plane like so many spent and dirty rags I’ve used on airport windows, split, threadbare and dim. But it’s good to see folks from the old country. She with her three hand-carry bags, probably all she owns. He with the look of a bruised warrior, or a man unsure of his footstep after being set adrift too long. Then there’s the boy. That kid there is a rough one. He looks beautiful and misunderstood like martyrs. All aura and golden, though pierced with the spit of the faithless. Yes, he’s a rough one who carries himself with too much purpose for a child his age. I feel the pull of the moon in him. It’s in the way he wears his hair, the cowlick up, forever ascending . . . ...

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