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there. Carved decades ago with a pocketknife and adolescent solemnity.
E.C.
A.C.
Mine and Aaron’s.
Faded, but not gone.
I ran my thumb over them.
“You kept it in good shape.”
The voice came from behind me.
I didn’t turn immediately. I knew who it was.
“I tried,” I said.
My father stepped up beside me. Not too close. Not far. Just there.
We stood in silence for continue reading …
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