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Prodigal

Prodigal David Groff When we moved our father out of his stu√ed and stu√y house to the dark brightness of la and the attention of my brother his place lay furnished but vacant, a memory, a hope, and a lie. Someday, he said, he’d be spry enough to climb on the train in downtown la and span the curve of the country and come back to his wrinkled Cape Cod and its somnolent eyebrow dormers. ‘‘It’s an Addison Gro√ museum!’’ I told him when he ventured and he ventured often, to ask us keepers of his flame, about the one home he’d owned. As with the churches he’d tended, he wanted it to miss him and be staggered by its grief but yet to prosper because he was the man who made it 149 a place that could not live without his ministrations. The house, no childhood home, held grief like a grudge, stuck in the soybean fields, all evenings descending blue, the fluorescence of Bob Evans a dinner’s respite. My mother grew bored to death in that box, her editing gigs and her sons arriving less than they left. Early one Valentine’s Day she grabbed once at her chest http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X

Abstract

David Groff When we moved our father out of his stu√ed and stu√y house to the dark brightness of la and the attention of my brother his place lay furnished but vacant, a memory, a hope, and a lie. Someday, he said, he’d be spry enough to climb on the train in downtown la and span the curve of the country and come back to his wrinkled Cape Cod and its somnolent eyebrow dormers. ‘‘It’s an Addison Gro√ museum!’’ I told him when he ventured and he ventured often, to ask us keepers of his flame, about the one home he’d owned. As with the churches he’d tended, he wanted it to miss him and be staggered by its grief but yet to prosper because he was the man who made it 149 a place that could not live without his ministrations. The house, no childhood home, held grief like a grudge, stuck in the soybean fields, all evenings descending blue, the fluorescence of Bob Evans a dinner’s respite. My mother grew bored to death in that box, her editing gigs and her sons arriving less than they left. Early one Valentine’s Day she grabbed once at her chest

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Dec 21, 2019

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