I donít remember my father. There are no photos of him that my mother kept hidden away. Only pictures of her, in long skirts and halter tops, one edge of the glossy paper jagged, the half where he might have stood, tie-died and bell-bottomed, torn away. The only untorn photo she saved, as a reminder of the kind of man he was or perhaps the kind to keep away from, was the one of her taken by the police.
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