V. SCREENDOOR
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His mother stood at the ironing board lighting a cigarette and regarding Geryon.
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Outside the dark pink air
was already hot and alive with cries. Time to go to school, she said for the third time.
Her cool voice floated
over a pile of fresh tea towels and across the shadowy kitchen to where Geryon stood
at the screen door.
He would remember when he was past forty the dusty almost medieval smell
of the screen itself as it
pressed its grid onto his face. She was behind him now. This would be hard
for you if you were weak
but you’re not weak, she said and neatened his little red wings and pushed him
out the door.