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Once upon a time there was a happy family with a beautiful baby boy around whom the world revolved.

He had a small white patch of hair on the top of his head.

His grandfather told him the first snowfall in a century had baptized him when he was an infant and the fates had designated him a special child.

Under a shady ash he learned to catch a football and fantasize he would be a star.

There was Christmas and Santa, Thanksgiving and turkey, Easter and eggs filled with confetti, Fourth of July and firecrackers.

And there were birthdays.

This would be the house that he would remember as home.

But a hurricane blew the tree down and there was the freeze that killed the flowers.

A blue norther swept the land and no amount of logs could bring back the warmth.

The seasons changed, the years passed and one day the little boy no longer believed in Santa.

He was no longer a little boy.

The little boy was gone forever and his father mourned his passing.

Like an orphan, the father searched for his son in his memories, but the past had disappeared, never to return.

This Father's Day an old man sits on a hard chair and stares into space.

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