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Sheltered Musings.

2007 October 22
by Hélène Martin

I’m folding these gigantic shirts and shorts and boxers in the middle of the night and it occurs to me that the man they belong to is somebody’s son.

All of these people (kids, really) are somebody’s children and yet there they all are sleeping peacefully on the church floor as I do their laundry.

Me, with very different parents.

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