ing piece), Liberia (chopped-off hands and feet), Gulf II (friendly-fire fatalities). The show – Big Dave was angling for an Emmy – would finish with a segment about the mother of all collateral-damage stories: September 11.I cue up my segment on the iMac. On the monitor, the nightmare has not yet begun. The camera cuts between the glowing faces of the bride and groom, then moves in for a close-up of the tiny American flags pinned to their nuptial finery.“Dad, can we eat breakfast in the TV room and watch cartoons?”I jump. Liz took off with the kids more than six months ago and one week into their visit, I’m still not used to the way they just materialize. “Jeez, I gotta put bells on you guys.”Kevin laughs.Sean says, “Can we?”“What?”“Eat breakfast in the TV room? Please?”I shrug. “Why not?”“Great! C’mon, Kev.”But Kevin doesn’t budge. “When are we going to the Renaissance Fair?”I’m wondering what I can get away with. “I’m thinking… noon.”“No way!” Kev complains. “We’ll miss the whole thing.”“Kevin,” his brother tells him, “it doesn’t even start till eleven. And it goes till seven.” Then, because he’s just learned to tell time, Sean adds: “P.M.”Kevin gives his brother a look. “No kidding, P.M.” He turns to me. “You promise? Noon?”I pretend to think about it. “Nahhhh, I can’t promise.”Sean gives a little gulp of a laugh and then the two of them moan in chorus: “Daaaaad.”At least they know, after a week, when I’m kidding. The first couple of days, worried looks flashed from one to the other. To say they’d forgotten my sense of humor understates it: they’d forgotten what I’m like – a depressing reminder that five months had been just about long enough to turn me into a stranger to my sons.When the kids are gone, I cue up the
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