Mortality, Thy Name Is Daddy
	In the June photograph, my father sits in a wheelchair, lightly grasping with his good right hand the brim of the golf hat just put on his head: a meaningless gesture -- not, therefore, even a gesture -- he will take it off, then replace it, then take it off againÖ Showing the photo, I say, "Big Bill tips his hat on his way out," which makes the picture; hides everything with the truth. He looks right at the camera. It is the stare of a stone.
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