In My Father’s Pockets

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When I was a child I often slipped into my parents’ bedroom in the early morning hours, where my father was sleeping after working late into the night. In search of lunch money, I would pick up the pants that he had dropped on the floor beside the bed the previous night, and, inhaling the scent of motor oil and soil, I would ease my hand into the pocket on the right side. Among the quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies, his pocket—the one he reached for with his right hand— held the key...