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“The Dead Do Age” by Song Jae-Hak
Each year my mother goes to a photo studio.It’s there where my father ages.Where the lines of my mother’s forehead softenand in an instant, for a moment, they become my father’s wrinkles.She softly puts in place the few hairs on his head,easily turning them deep and dark as charcoal.It’s always there, with my father dressed…