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On a recent road trip to Manatee Springs State Park while stopping for gas, I smiled to think about my mother. 
The service station restroom had a dispenser for soap, which came out green and silky, but had a sharp lemon-peppery smell, just like the bar of Ivory soap in my childhood home.
My five brothers, two sisters, and I had always to wash our hands before dinner,  and my mother would inspect all 16 of them, invariably flagging mine which still had dirt under the nails from playing in the prairie. She’d take me to the sink and hold one hand under the tap and rub the slippery bar across the tops of my fingers, a ticklish but warm feeling with her own hand underneath mine.  

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