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“Freckle” (RIP Dad 2/10/17)

  • Susan Black
  • Feb 10
  • 1 min read

I’m four years old.  Dad is scrubbing my face with a washcloth.  He keeps scrubbing just under my lower lip, just above my chin.  “It won’t come off,” he says.  I giggle because I know why.  “It’s a freckle, not a dirt spot!”  It’s still there, along with the memory.

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