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The old guy sits alone at a small bare card table, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere but there, in the corner of the lobby of the grocery store, hawking poppies.
The small glass jar in front of him is almost empty. From boredom, perhaps, or maybe from a touch of OCD or nervousness or deeply entrenched discipline, he’s lined up a few dozen of his poppies in four equal rows, with military precision.
From here, they look like four tiny rows of graves. (more…)