Letter to my children: On regret
/Dearest Beloveds,
The summer of my 19th year, I lived with Winkie. She was in her 90s. Several memories stick out from that time. After spending the whole night out with friends, swimming in moonlit pools and drinking, “hmmm, I guess I just need to get used to the morals of 19 year olds,” she said to me with a twinkle at the breakfast table, “pass the toast please.”
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