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  • His last Thanksgiving, my father could no longer swallow solid food. So he would chew up the turkey, dressing and other things he loved, discreetly spit the bites into a napkin, and place the napkin in a small trash can next to his chair. He just wanted to enjoy the taste.

    I observed him from across the room. During one of his spits, our eyes met for a painful second. We both looked quickly away. I put my fork down and stared at my full plate.

    Later, we sat silently on the back porch watching the bright yellow leaves fall.
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