Marc Petersen I am on my way to extinction, here, today, Christmas morning, my blanket spread out, my wine uncorked, lighting my first cigarette before the stone that says my father, and the tiny angel smiling on the granite roof, and those who have gone past their deaths in rows up along the banks of lawns and flowers–all anonymous, even though I know the names of those closest, and my sneakers are wet from walking. Marc Petersen...