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November 3, 2005

Ted: Inheritance

Dad never smoked cigars, but he had a great humidor. Beautiful, rosewood, shiny brass fittings, very heavy. I was nine when Dad died, but Mom didn't give me the key until my thirteenth birthday.

I opened the box up in my room, alone, like Dad said to do in his will.

The photographs were amazing. Places out of storybooks were suddenly alive in my hands.

On the very bottom of the stack was a photo of my Dad, as a boy, standing in front of a huge fountain.

All I left in that room was water splashed on the floor.

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