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Trailed by Roberto, David strides onto the hillside where our father lived and played as a child. I eye the oldest trees and wonder: did he sit in that niche of branches when it was just starting to become a sturdy tree? Did he flee the no doubt draconian, Old World discipline in his house? Did he find a peaceful nook here, hearing only bird calls and leaves rustling in the wind?

Is that him there? For a moment, a vision comes to mind of a dark-haired, hazel-eyed boy, peeking from behind gnarled bark.



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