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Jul. 14th, 2011

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I remember thirteen.

At thirteen I started to ride the subway alone. Thirteen was when I put away my Matchbox cars and picked up Rolling Stone. It was after-school peanut butter cups and cream soda from the deli on Bond Street. At thirteen I got to try a little of dad's beer, and at thirteen I swore I'd never drink that godawful stuff. Thirteen was tremulous fear and quaking desire. Thirteen was when childhood faded into the mist, and the future beckoned slyly from the car.

I remember thirteen well, but now I see it for what it really is:

make a wish

Thirteen is the time of angels.

Happy birthday, my mad, bad, sad, brilliant beautiful man.

April 2012

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