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7 Carol of a Father He runs ahead to ford a flood of leaves— he suddenly a forager and I the lagging child content to stay behind and watch the gold upheavals at the curb submerge his surging ankles and subside. A word could leash him back or make him turn and ask me with his eyes if he should stop. One word, and he would be a son again and I a father sentenced to correct a boy’s caprice to shuffle in the drifts. Ignoring fatherhood, I look away and let him roam in his Octobering to mint the memory of those few falls when a boy can wade the quiet avenues alone, and the sound of leaves solves everything. ...

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