A Wise Son

I woke up with a fussy, yellow feeling in my stomach, as though
a couple of eggs had rotted in there. Helen-- my wife-- was still
asleep. There was the smell of burning toast. Our son was already
downstairs, making himself breakfast.

Dammit, it snowed again.

The bathroom has a kind of lighting that one associates with
cafeterias or morgues. I splashed water on my face, brushed my
teeth, and shaved.

I like to get to work early and read at my desk. It's the only
time I can read. I diddle with the newspaper first and then dip
into a book, usually an old college favorite.

This morning I brought a volume of Neddy Merrill with me. It is a
big book, containing many of his stories. There are enough
characters and habits to form a complete little world. I was hopeful
that his sense of decorum would rub off on me. And also, his
decisiveness.


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