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“There’s no getting those years back.” He said this after a long swig of Black Bush and for a moment I saw in his eyes a glimpse of an unblemished childhood where the years had yet to etch his present weathered patina with their acidic fingers touch. Crutch-less, a boy running through dandelion jungles and a wilderness of endless possibilities sans the crippling effect of beatings- the paternal swung belt buckle, lashing of multiple callous wives or the gun butt of some government’s definition of enemy. We drank for hours and played Memory with overturned desires, shuffled them face down and flipped them to prove our mettle, until they were as mixed up as us. “You’ve got to lance the puss, not let it settle.” I said after a particularly disturbing snippet showed itself on the table. He slammed the shot glass down and the sound echoed in my recollections like the first time I'd fired a deer-rifle some long ago, lonely dawn. “There’s no goddamn time machines.” But my only reply was to tap the half empty bottle of Protestant whiskey and think to myself that they’d gotten that old adage about drinking to forget all wrong Post a comment in response: |
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