The years after graduation hardened me into someone quite different from the strutting graduate
who left campus that day headed for New York City, ready to offer the world his talent.
The world, I discovered, was not all that interested.
I wandered around my early twenties, paying rent and reading classifieds and wondering why the lights were not turning green for me.
My dream was to be a famous musician (I played the piano), but after several years of dark, empty nightclubs, broken promises,
bands that kept breaking up and producers who seemed excited about everyone but me, the dream soured.
I was failing for the first time in my life. At the same time, I had my first serious encounter with death.
My favorite uncle, my mother's brother, the man who had taught me music, taught me to drive,
teased me about girls, thrown me a football—that one adult whom I targeted as a child and said, “That's who I want to be when I grow up”—
died of pancreatic cancer at the age of forty-four.
He was a short, handsome man with a thick mustache, and I was with him for the last year of his life, living in an apartment just below his.
I watched his strong body wither, then bloat, saw him suffer, night after night, doubled over at the dinner table,
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