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January 27, 2014
Shadows of bare trees are etched keenly against the snow as more softly pelts the layers which have already gathered. Each flake, one by one falling in slow leafy motion to settle in some new spot on the blanket. It has been a while since my son climbed the stairs and disappeared to the ghost voice greeting him up there. I did not call him back to talk to him. Son, where do you see yourself in twenty-five years? In ten years? In five minutes? Dad, where do you see yourself in twenty-five years? In ten years? In five minutes?