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That smell loitered amid the high school softball games I played beneath those stacks and lingered on my father’s shirtsleeves when he came home from work, allowing me to forgive the rank odor for what it provided.From the porch steps of the house where I grew up, to the right, you’ll see a street of clapboarded homes, the quiet interrupted every now and then by a braking logging truck.
It’s a paper mill town where smokestacks poke holes in the smog they create.
, my father used to say about the rotten-smelling upriver drafts that surfaced when the weather shifted.
So it sits there, this once elegant home, shedding its brightness, yellow flecking the half-frozen ground.
Spray-painted in the road near the driveway: “Fuck you, bitch.” The fug of the mill swallows us.
The lobby smells of Band-Aids, warm mashed potatoes, and damp socks.
Being there reminds me of Greg, my high school on-again, off-again lumberjackish boyfriend who lived near the town incinerator.
A few dirty buttresses of snow linger like pocked monoliths, meting out the new season’s arrival.
The swollen Androscoggin pushes flotsam downriver in the commotion of spring’s thaw, and insect hatches will soon begin bursting along its surface until summer opens like an oven.
Mexico, Maine sits in a valley or “River Valley” as we call the area, because I suppose you can’t have one without the other.
The hills are low and worn and carved by the waters surrounding them, and trees line the rivers, which confine the town.