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My father's gift
I remember hearing my father's voice
from beyond the grave.
No dream—a single, scratchy vinyl
had captured his characteristic
lilting, homiletic style,
that seemed,
in and of itself,
to be the message—
no surprises there,
nor flights,
yet a resonance
that touched
and stays with me
...
Friday 5th April 2019 2:17 am
Player Piano
Player piano in the empty funeral parlor foyer cranks
out old standards with a Dixieland flourish. The old
wooden cross. How great thou art. Take my hand precious
Lord. No one hears it. No one is here to discuss pre-planning.
No one peruses coffins for his aunt who has been sick so long
the family forgot she would die. No one is scooped out
by grief at the accidental death o...
Tuesday 19th February 2019 11:07 pm
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