I approached my father in the yard of his most recent home, a small, run-down duplex shack. His hair was whiter than I remembered, his old blue sweater shaggy. He was clipping the hedge in his careless but enthusiastic way; when finished, it wouldn't look good, but it would look clipped. One of his eyes was red and tearing up. A splinter had flown into it as he trimmed the boughs ...

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