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Father and/or Abraham It's like talking about the Lincoln Memorial: tremendous, yes, bigger than anything I can remember, those tons of marble cold when a cold wind gets in there but warm in Spring --are springs warm in Virginia, my last address for you? It's like asking that enormous white silence to explain me rainbows to question my desert memories for clues to your face: you, at my age, were already elsewhere, far away from your child as your government could get you, and it's like screaming into the giant effigy's ear to mention. It's like searching in solid eyes for similarities I so easily find in photographs you left in your wake like postcards from your winter vacation. It's like measuring a statue to find a space to fit you.