I’m standing in front of the first kitchen my father has ever made me. It has a sink, a nicely appointed set of cabinets, a compact, two-burner stove, and a small pantry with red knobs where I can put cereal and bread. From outside, a winter sun, brightened by fresh snow, beams in through the window, alights upon the red knobs, and amplifies my aloneness in the room.
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