Mixing It Up with Mama
N. R. Robinson
I awake to the clanking of pans on burners and what had been a distant memory: the smell of creamed eggs and toast. Mama’s “Hope you’re hungry!” confirms she still has eyes in the back of her head. When I’d gotten the word to haul ass to D.C., I’d been stuck in a place, Aberle Home for Boys, in the wee town of McKeesport, Pennsylvania. Out of the blue came the call: Grandma warning that Mama was shacked
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Iron Horse Literary Review
