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el. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, a thin moustache and thinning hair highlighting a handsome face. He was a shepherd by profession and was still much beloved in the port area of Ischia, decades after his death. He was a man generous of spirit and quick to laugh. My mother had once told me of the time he gave away all the summer clothes Grandma Maria had stored to the poor residents spread out across the mountain region of the island. My mother and her sister Nancy were the first to discover that other young girls were wearing their dresses and went to see Grandma Maria about it. She listened and shrugged. ���Your father said we can buy new dresses but they can���t,��� Grandma Maria told them. ���Simple as that.��� It was the other framed photo that caught my eye. It was that of a handsome young man, thick and rich dark hair combed back in the Hemingway style, eyes filled with energy and life. I didn���t ask about him at first, allowing myself time to get to know and love the old woman who sat across from me. Then, one day I did. Grandma Maria sipped her coffee and turned to stare at the photo for a few moments and then looked back at me. She folded her thick, wrinkled hands and sat straight up in a hard-back chair. ���I was in the hospital in Naples, giving birth to my last child, Joseph,��� she began. Her voice was, as always, warm and soft as if it were coated with syrup. ���When it came time for a few of us to leave, the nuns were preparing the babies to go home. Your grandfather stood watching them from behind a glass partition. He glanced over and saw one baby alone and off to the side. He turned to a nun standing next to him and asked, ���Is that child sick?��� The HYLAND