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I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch, the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood behind his head, I see my mother with a few light books at her hip standing at the pillar make of tiny bricks with the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its sword-tips back in the May air, they are about to graduate, they...

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Published: 1 year, 4 months ago (Thu, 13 Mar 2008 21:51:53 PDT); 1437 bytes
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