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The manicured lawn rolls down either side of the knoll, punctuated with flat granite plaques, the occasional bouquet of cut flowers, a smattering of faded eight-inch American flags.
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Out of respect, I would honor my father, put on a clean, starched shirt and hand buff my shoes, laced as tightly as the tone that sealed the room. I understood that walking over the dead, barefoot or otherwise, was tempting fate, and will admit…
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