She stood in the doorway of the classroom with her beautiful boundaries shining all around her—yes like a halo this time—and he decided he would marry her. He pursued her and he pestered her; he followed her home and threw rocks at her. He pelted a single question persistently at her window: will you marry me? A picture of my mother holding my father’s hand, the very essence of oval-faced, madonna-blank loveliness, with something mischievous about her left canine. “Why did you say yes?” I ask her, but I already know the answer. My mother loves to argue, and love is the only argument you can
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