My brother gave me an album of photographs and important papers that my father left behind. I keep it out of sight in the basement. But sometimes, late at night, when the rest of my family is asleep, I drink too much wine and think about the past.
My father sits on a stool in blue jeans with a coffee mug held on his thigh. His back is straight as he smiles broadly for the camera. He is barrel-chested and powerful. His hair and beard are dark. He wears a khaki military shirt and cap without insignia. He looks like Fidel Castro.
He smiles wryly at me from another photograph, his senior portrait. He is nattily attired in a suit and tie. It shocks me to see how much we look alike. He is thin and handsome. Alcohol and age have yet to thicken his features. His dark eyes convey…
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