He was a mountain of few


a river flowing through the

house, mostly out.

Conversations were awkward

creating uncomfortable moments,

too many to count.

His love was his work

a place he escaped to without

guilt of leaving those behind,

considering it his duty;

I knew he would rather be somewhere


He grew old without saying much

about it,

slowing his schedule but not around

the house.


He became ill.

I visited him during the

final stages

remembering various

events and his time in the Army.

I prayed with him each time

offering support.


He passed early

one morning.


I would love to hear

him say my name

one more time.







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