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her shoes off there on the bench and bury her feet in it. But it’s not the same. I don’t know what to say. It’s exhausting, I tell her, and my calves are seizing up. Enjoy it, she says. And I feel like that’s too serious for this beach and for us, so I laugh, just to myself, and keep going. I can’t walk barefoot on the sand anymore, she says. She’s missing three centimeters on the left — three centimeters that make her left shoe so clunky. Before her hip operation the doctor mentioned that might happen, that once the right hip was back in its proper position her legs might differ in length because her body had compensated for the misalignment all those years, the muscles of the left side shortening. Now she wears those years of ill-bourne weight on her left foot, in the sole. Her gait, the way she carries herself even when she isn’t walking, when she’s sitting or standing: all you have to do is look at her shoe. I’m bored, and it makes me hungry. A relaxing weekend for his girls: that’s what comes to mind now, this phrase of my father’s and how unfair I find it. We buy fish and chips and a Coke to go with them and eat standing up at the tables. It’s always good to have a snack — gives you energy, my mother says. I know what my father would ask: Is that really necessary? And I ask: Energy for what? And all of a sudden I’m completely grossed out by how she’s dunking her fries into the mayonnaise one by one and shoving them in her mouth, swallowing almost without chewing. Seagulls circle overhead and we realize too late what they have in mind. One of them dives, stealing a fry from the paper dish in her hand and the plunge comes so suddenly that she’s nearly knocked off her feet, she drops the dish and teeters, teeters, teeters—grabs the table. Rights herself. Ah. It’s like the seagull

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2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

Profile for cusoa