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Sixty years ago, my boyfriend and I were having a blast, sneaking into the yearbook room after hours, making out as deeply and thoroughly as Midwestern youth is able, developing and printing our works. Over time, he went right (oilfield worker) and I went left (public school teacher), but how could anyone ever forget the thrill? Not me. Not ever. I heard that he died recently, but he’ll never be dead to me.

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