He is in his rooms in the Kenmore Hotel,
Once-gracious lady favored by the ancient city’s elite,
She had always smiled. Getting a smile out of his mother was no mean feat; not that she was dour or stern, exactly, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to call her “businesslike”, not unlike many other of the mothers whose husbands worked in the factories of Cohoes (his father worked second shift at a specialty steel mill down on Mohawk Street, and he didn’t see him much during the week, unless he got a bit too rambunctious at breakfast, at which time he saw all he wanted of him and then some), leaving their wives with most of the heavy-lifting in terms of child rearing. He would draw her pictures of flowers and trees and, later on, pictures of them walking hand-in-hand to the grocery store or a portrait of her hanging laundry on the clothesline. She smiled at his drawings—not just because they were his, but also because they were actually quite good, certainly better than the run-of-the-mill pictures posted on other refrigerators with a watermelon-slice-shaped magnet.
it could be that
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