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What Can I Bring?
I chopped onions until their tears streamed down my cheeks. The old wooden screen door bangs shut and the breeze blows an escaped tendril of hair that sticks to my face. In the mirror on the wall I can see two black eyes. I sniffle and then splash water into my face, and keep cutting and weeping. The sound of heavy boots come up the back porch steps. As the screen door complains I hear you say, "That's it," as you drop the box down. Mountains of potatoes surround me, and I think I shall never finish. I say to you, "I can't wait until tomorrow."
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