My mother never walks under a fire escape. Even living in New York City, she avoids sidewalks and risks walking in busy streets just so she won’t have to step under them. “They could fall at any time, you know, right on your head—and it’s just plumb bad luck.” She refuses to ride elevators, doesn’t leave the house on the thirteenth of every month, screams at my father if he leaves his hat on the bed, searches for four leaf clovers but never plucks them. I step on cracks in the sidewalk, have a black cat, open my umbrella inside when it’s raining, check for heads-up pennies but flip over the tails. Say what you will, but I don’t think the apple falls so far from the tree.
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