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52 Dinner There is the heat, standing over the ranks of maize and cotton with both feet planted, and there is the cool of the yard. She’s home from town, from clerking in the grocery, and he’s in from the fields palming a pair of sun-warmed tomatoes. Pesticide reek in his pinstripe overalls, he removes the broad Resistol from his bald head, whistling tongue tip to thin lips, his pickup parked in a perfect skirt of shade, door left open. Slightly stooped, she moves on gnarled feet, carrying a platter of peeled potatoes. The floor shakes in rhythm when she walks. There’s chink and tink-tank of spoon in crockery, plate on plate, the midday murmur of a radio kept low, their quiet conversation. 53 Through the window, shelved limbs and deep dark of a mulberry, past barn and implement, a clump of woods, there is the world forgone, and there is the fact of its forgoing, like the dog under the porch content on its bed of rags and straw. i.m. Floyd “Babe” Chesshire and Estelle Tidwell Chesshire ...

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