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Today is the anniversary of the day my dad came back from Vietnam. Every year on this anniversary, my grandmother called my dad to welcome him home. When she died, I took the tradition over. If I say it to him now, it wouldn’t mean anything anymore, but I still feel compelled to keep the tradition going. So, I’m saying it on here instead. Welcome home, Poppa, welcome home.

Dad playing sax in Vietman

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