Seamus thought with a silly kind of meanness that if he were another kind of writer, a tacky writer, he could write about that. About the smell of his father’s rotting foot. About the simultaneous brightness and dullness of the beige room where his father did rehabilitation at the hospital, watching him fasten himself into plastic limbs that pinched and bit. Or watching him stretch the partial nubs of his fingers as wide as they would go, and the anger in his eyes when he found that he could no longer do this simple task. Outside the window of the rehab room, there had been a small garden with
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