Fiction | September 01, 1981
A Father, A Daughter
Jaimy Gordon
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When I was six I loved my father passionately; hearts flew, as they say, whenever I saw him, and we were as chaste as teenage lovers in a forties movie. At six p.m. he veered to the curb in his sky-blue Ford roadster: he wore a green bow-tie; he stepped off the running board with a heart shaped box of chocolate kisses and a bunch of violets in his hand; he gave them to me.
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