"I don't WANT to go," Eddie says.
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He is eight years old. He sits on the edge of a plaid couch, his arms crossed in anger. His mother is at his feet, tying his shoes. His father is at the mirror, fixing his tie.
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"I know," his mother says, not looking up, "but we have to. Sometimes you have to do things when sad things happen."
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"But it's my BIRTHDAY."
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Eddie looks mournfully across the room at the erector set in the corner, a pile of toy metal girders and three small rubber wheels. Eddie had been making a truck. He is good at putting things together. He had hoped to show it to his friends at a birthday party. Instead, they have to go someplace and get dressed up. It isn't fair, he thinks.
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His brother, Joe, dressed in wool pants and a bow tie, enters with a baseball glove on his left hand. He slaps it hard. He makes a face at Eddie.
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"Those were my old shoes," Joe says. "My new ones are better."
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"Stop wiggling," his mother says.
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Eddie winces. He hates having to wear Joe's old things.
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"They HURT!" Eddie whines.
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At the cemetery, Eddie barely recognizes the pier people. The men who normally wear gold lame and red turbans are now in black suits, like his father. The women seem to be wearing the same black, dress; some cover their faces in veils.
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"Enough!" his father yells. He glares at Eddie. Eddie goes silent.
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Eddie watches a man shovel dirt into a hole. The man says something about ashes. Eddie holds his mothers hand and squints at the sun. He is supposed to be sad, he knows, but he is secretly counting numbers, starting from 1, hoping that by the time he reaches 1000 he will have his birthday back.
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