The guys say I’m lucky. That I got everything.
They’re right. I am lucky.
I’m the luckiest kid in the world.
Not everyone’s so lucky. I know this. . . .
Five months ago we were just another family in Brooklyn. Papa sold cigars, candy, writing paper, occasionally a stuffed toy made by Mama. We weren’t rich, but we managed. And then they saw the cartoon in the paper. . . .