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Father was not necessary. And yet I am staring at a lump of dirt with a shovel fixed vertically beside it. I am staring at the lump trying to imagine the brown rabbit in the shoebox beneath me—how I failed to take care of it and nurture it to a long and fulfilling life. But what is fulfilling to a rabbit? I fed it carrots, celery, and changed its water when I found the time. I never found enough time. I know that even if I had a second chance at raising that rabbit, I’d do marginally better. It would still die. And I would still be sobbing with this cigarette dangling between my lips, trying to make some sense of it all.

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Mother is gone, and I am scouring the streets of Arizona…Frantic, I search for scraps of a man to assemble the image of an Indian-boy who got a little too close to the fire one-too-many-times but kept throwing more wood on the effigy of his preacher-father, piling that sucker higher and higher, dancing around it like he really was some Indian.

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