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January 31st 2010    Tim Candler

    Tomorrow I take red blotches on pink skin to the funeral parlor in the big town one and a half hours drive from here.   In the past weeks I have been obedient to direction so perhaps more accurate to describe these red blotches as itchy scabs.

    I remember the last time I paid to spend time with him.   He was terribly thin and pale, and worse I could have been his grandfather.   But he was like an old man because he held his chin up when he examined my arms.   Nor do I remember whether he wears glasses.  

     Invariably when I make the next appointment it is months away, and I quickly dismiss it as so far into the future that it is hardly worth a slot in memory.   Yet, he never actually leaves, because everyday I see him in my skin in the same way that I can see dentists in my toothbrush.

    It is a ubiquitous presence these characters have.   They are like wandering Albatross following a ship at sea.   And they are the confessional, because that day invariably arrives when once again explanation is required.

     But there is a gleam, because in the early hours of tomorrow morning  it might not be possible to navigate the driveway.

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