When I was a kid, my dad gave me a bouncy ball unlike any other. He’d been a merchant sailor and had worked all around the world, made friends in every country, on every continent, among people of all walks of life.
This bouncy ball, he told me, had come along for the ride; he’d bounced that ball all around the world. I let our dog play with it.
Only about half of the ball remained after that. My dad didn’t berate me or scream at me, or otherwise make me feel guilty, but even now — perhaps 25 years later — I still feel the agony of that guilt like it hollowed me out and left me empty ever since.
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