Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

It's a silver haired Kelly Gruber that winks at me through the fragile strands of an abandoned clothes-line; amidst a life crisis.

His hands are rusted and throbbing, and his knees are buckled and sore to the eyes.

He is limping and mumbling

Together we watched as his aura—which was there and was as plain as daytime infield grass only some time ago—went tumbling towards the abyss like a fly ball headed for the front two rows of Exhibition Stadium; no chance for a play.

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Day 4 | Kelly Home | Day 6