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Rembrandt and I met when I was 8 and he was 360. He was my first great painting. We stared at each other mostly, me from the lit gallery, him from the darkness. He admired my glasses; I liked his hat. I thought he looked sad.  I wondered if he liked being in a corner.

We met a few times after that for stare and dash visits.

Rembrandt and I saw each other on Monday, my 60th birthday. I was pleased that he had been moved out of the corner. We stared at each other mostly. I looked sad. He said “I know.”

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