I recall a time before this, when there was less blue on my soul and humor was plentiful, when I spent an afternoon on a windswept beach far from the smashing and thundering of the big guns in the hills, where Father said good men were fighting a good fight and I'd never have to worry about them coming to take me away, for there was solace to be had in creation (this from him, a painterly man whose landscapes sold poorly but who never felt more at ease than when his wrinkled trousers were stained with colored oils), there was solace to be had in holding the hand of your father, there was quiet by the old hearth his father had built, painting each tile with scenes of wild things roaming the skies, the fields, and the wood beyond our home.

Yes, I remember that time.

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