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..: Bonding
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When I was a little kid in New York, my dad would take me to McDonalds on the way to my preschool. We'd drive away from our little neighborhood in Queens, down the road, up the hill, and at the bottom of the hill, on the left was the McDonalds. Driveways were framed by snow. I'd always get pancakes. The syrup always got on the top styrofoam cover. I always thought to keep the styrofoam boxes the pancake meal came in, but they would not leave the restaurant. My dad and I ate together like that often, I think, and we ate very quietly. At least, he didn't talk to me. I was just a kid, I didn't really have anything good to say. The time seemed to go fast. He'd leave me at school, with all the strange kids. Sometimes he didn't take me to school. Sometimes it was the woman in the cold big station wagon with the big metal seat belts. I rode with other kids. I was supposed to learn their names, but I never cared.

When I was a teen, my dad would sometimes try the same kind of bonding. He'd take my sister or me to McDonalds on some Saturday morning, or on a Sunday when he was supposed to be taking us to church. Usually, we wouldn't make it to worship. At some point, it didn't matter to me anymore where we went anymore. The bonding wasn't working. In his mind, the years were fast. It was just a short amount of time ago that I liked McDonalds, wasn't it? Things change so fast.
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