.
.
.
Here among these withered and fateless trees,
you see that your father is not the only ghost of your past that you'll find.
A shop...
... and him.
Right down to the busted shoe... your actual childhood friend, in the vision of your memory.
You don't show it, but you feel a little sick... and your face is frozen.
"My, oh, my," you start, in that old slowness you've likened to using,
.
.
.