I can see the back of Daddy’s neck. It’s a memory from sitting in church and looking at him sideways or from the back. It was reddish brown, criss-crossed with deep lines, reminiscent of a scored ham. Freckles and moles stood in for whole cloves, studding his neck at intervals.
His freshly cut hair was sculpted around the edges to demarcate one border, while a stiff, starched white shirt formed the other.