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May 15, 2003
I took advantage of the slowness of my father’s departure to head back to Mr. Calloway’s elbow and tugged his fleece. As if we were rehearsing a scene, he repeated his prior movements by glancing over his shoulder, rolling his hazels, and turning back to his bitterness. Figuring I had a few more minutes of my father’s departure goodbyes, I tugged again at the soft blueness.

“What?”

I tugged again.

“What, I said?”

I tugged again, this time holding on to the fleece.

“Oh my dear Mother of God!” he muttered in frustration, shaking his elbow to break my curiosity.