Initially I’d written that I was 19, but later changed it to 20 with the thought that two was better than one.

My true age was fifty-six, and in my heart, two was still better than one, regardless how anyone else arrived at the number.

Dad died when he was fifty-five. Alone.

The last thing he said to me was,

“Don’t take a reader’s perceptions to heart.”

He also told me that happiness comes easily, but died in tears.

So I write just this way, but twice.

Once to smile without fear, for me.

Once to cry in fear, for him.

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