“Well, that was emotional.”
Near the porch rocking chair, there were snuffed-out cigarettes in an ashtray. After I knocked on his door, his skinny frame stepped out from behind the screen door and he looked like Christmas had just arrived from Burning Man. A gap of chin split his beard in two by a gap of chin, and if it were not for his feeble eyes, hidden behind thick, recycled-bottle glasses, I would have been nervous. I got a weird sense of Déjà vu. I somehow knew, maybe in a dream, that I would be giving away my childhood to the Anti-Santa.