Ten years ago, this photo of my father appeared in the local paper. He often cycled into the country as well as by the manmade lake not far from his (our) house. Here he's mentioned as having photographed a white goose, and I know he often took bread with him on his rides to feed them.
He never--never--spoke an unkind word to me, in spite of those I spent on him (mostly as a teenager, for what little grace that offers me). Dad, every day my life is less without you.
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