On a Washington Heights corner in the panting swelter, I learned that grit was not hominy, or teeth, but proud squalor. Not deficiency, but irritated worldly brick-chip-poster-tatter. D.G.'s pugilistic grandpa was late to meet us. It was beginning to matter.
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We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet