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51 Legacy is a piece of toilet paper hanging out of your pants at a family reunion You wake and find yellow traffic signs with silhouettes of your face plastered around the neighborhood. The night before is scattered at your feet like the shattered side window of a dump truck. The mind is a carpet, and memories are all the crap you can’t scrub up, like those nights as a kid with your mom, watching home movies of your Irish ancestors wash up on Ellis Island in their speedboats. On the outside of a milk carton is the name and face of your inner child. On the inside of the carton is printed the child’s whereabouts. Yes, you were born the black sheep of the family. Yes, your parents shaved off your wool coat to pay for your brother’s piano lessons. Yes, reality is a bemusement park you’re not allowed to leave, so spin cotton candy from the strands of your dead grandmother’s hair, and smile when you look at the sky— someone really is laughing up there. ...

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