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It was numbers. Numbers, not numerology. We didn't say numerology. The Lady at Sami's serving me breakfast, whom I had not seen in a while, welcomed me, "Happy New Year" . . . & asked when I was born. She guessed the Autumn. I told her September. "Late or early?" she asked. September 9th. "My twins were born on September 9! One at 9 and the other at 9:01!"
"I asked because that's what my daughter wanted for Christmas." She pointed at my chest where my ID card and trinkets hang. My hand was there, over my heart, during our conversation. She was pointing at my big silver biker Keith Richards ring.
We laughed. I told her I loved numbers like that. 9 9 9. "They're Magic."
I went to my table and Mick Jagger was singing Memo From Turner in my head. Here I was, as I often was, "...eating eggs at Sami's..." just like in the song. Never occurred to me before.
And I had just finished reading Dennis Lehane's Moonlight Mile. Another Rolling Stones song.
It was cold out. Five days after Christmas. While I walked, only the boy saw me and ptactically sang, "Santa Claus!" but his serious parents did not look up as they approached Children's Hospital. ...My Beamish Boy, Oh Frabjous Day! Callooh Callay! ...