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  • My father made baskets in his retirement years.
    Instead of filling the notebooks in his study at the top of the stairs, they gathered dust and he sat in the yard weaving strands of ash together into shapes that described the air around them.
    I have the last basket he was making before he became too ill to complete it. The handle just needs to be lashed on and I think I am up to that.
    I have other baskets of his to follow the pattern, he can teach me in this way.
    We, my mother and I, brought his extra materials – a considerable trove – to the local Arts Center.
    It is a donation large enough for a class or a gift for another basket maker.
    In this way he will continue.
    His pie basket will come to social gatherings and his vegetable basket will join me in the garden.
    He has woven himself into my life, our DNA twined and his baskets a rhyme for those patterns.
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