The Rust and the Rain
I woke up on a Tuesday in December 1992 and knew, in the way you know things when you've been drinking too much and can't quite remember why, that something was wrong with the calendar. It said December 8. But I remembered December. I remembered December 1993, when Donna would leave for Cleveland. I remembered December 1994, when Dad would die of cirrhosis. I remembered December 1995, when I'd...
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