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March 26, 2013
FROM THE FILES OF JOHN SNYDER, WHO REMEMBERS EVERY GRAPE HE'S EATEN, AND LITTLE ELSE

— Grapes on the table. Big green ones on a bunch. I was too little. I was toddling. Couldn’t reach. Wanted the grapes! Papa was there. He cut a grape in half, and now I had two.

— A day camp, I think. People out. Sunlight kisses someone’s grapes: 33 Golden Muscats bursting from a Ziploc bag. Gary? Kevin? Who the hell knows? He takes the sucker’s trade: a coffee cake his way; a full side stem to me.

— A divorce? What? The lawyer bogarts his Valencias.