January 23, 2013
Sitting here I can barely see the morning leaking through
window. The shade is drawn. The glass is dirty. The air is gray. And as far as
I can see, I see motherless children and husbands alone.
But called, I step out on the porch and hear...faintly, as
my hearing is poor these days... the little birds that your mother fed, the
very tiny ones that even your old father loves.
They sing,
"Come out, come out...come out to us.
Come with, come with...come go with us.
Blind can see...blind can see.
Love you...love you
Come here to me... come here to me.”
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