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* Cfj`e^Jfcfdfe We estimate a man by how much he remembers. —Ralph Waldo Emerson Things seem to take on a sudden shimmer before vanishing: the polished black loafers he wore yesterday, the reason for climbing the stairs, even the names of his own children are swallowed like spent stars against the dark vault of memory. Today the toaster gives up its silver purpose in his hands, becomes a radio, an old Philco blaring a ball game from the ’40s with Jackie Robinson squaring up to the plate. For now, it’s simple; he thinks he is young again, maybe nineteen, alone in a kitchen. He is staring through his own reflection in the luster and hoping against hope that Robinson will clear the bases with a ball knocked so far over the stadium wall it becomes a pigeon winging up into the brilliance. And perhaps, in one last act of alchemy, as Jackie sails around third, he will transform everything, even the strange and forgotten face glaring back from the chrome, into something familiar, something Solomon could know as his own. ...

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