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Offering Wear this, grandmother said, lifting his shirt from the drawer, well worn though so long unworn, one button missing, elbows threadbare though cover enough against the prickle and chafe of hay and twine as I stacked bale after bale in the loft, breathing the sweetness of fields mingled with sweat when tin held splashes of sun like a pan in that high hall of a room built by a man three years dead whose work-cloth flowed like a robe over my wrists and my knees, what he had sown offered up from his sons' hands to my own —Ron Rash 27 ...

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