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    He crawled under the table on 13 month old knees and looked up. The first memory crackled somewhere behind his left ear, forever, of sunlight breaking against the red and white-checkered plastic tablecloth.

    At 8, he left his father forever.

    At 10, he found a new one.

    At 18, he made the friend of his life.

    At 27, he watched him die.

    At 31, he looked into his wife’s eyes for the first time.

    At 36, he held his son.

    At 41, he wrote. And wrote.

    At 45, he wrote. And made money.

    At 54, he kissed his son in front of his new dorm mate, and winked, as if to say “I’m a man who will always kiss his son, son.”

    At 63, his heart protested.

    At 64, he gave himself a break.

    At 67, his heart protested too much.

    A bullet-pointed life, like a bullet through a life.