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In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference between persimmon and precision.
YOU SHOULD KNOW THE DIFFERENCE!
Go stand in the corner.
My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face.
My father sits on the tired wooden stairs, hand over hand, gripping the handle. He's so happy that I've come home. I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers.
Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.
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