...with a silver cup in my hand

My baby fist would bang it on the highchair tray to get my way or I'd drink up to gaze ito a pool of lambent fire or wonder at the spidery lines tracing a name. I didn't know me then. Do I - even now? Battered and bright it broods year after year beside an hourglass above some ageless books bringing me back (as decade after decade sneaks on by) to those amazing far-removed imperious days.

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