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white-washed. (1)

Robert Rado

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I was dragged there for no good reason.
Scrap it.
I was invited and I went.

My father once took me to see my grandmother’s cousin.
There must be a word for that relation.
The three of us had tea together.

Her husband had been a relatively
famous mathematician.
He also painted. Relatively.

“Look honey, this has been here for over…”
And I think she said fifty years.
Five-oh.
She was pointing at the wall.

“What is it?” I ventured.
“A mural.”
“A mural?”
“Yes. A mural.”
“What’s a mural?” I said,
as I was staring at one.

Father cut in, “So, do you happen to remember
where the book is?”
“Let me look,” she replied, still looking at me,
never explaining the word.

I gathered her husband had written books,
and one was a hit.
It was about prime numbers.
My father had forever obsessed about
books and primes.

At the bottom, I could see
the paint had dripped.

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