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Eleven years ago, my father died.
Divorced from my mother when I was two,
he was a stranger to me most of my life.
I had no tears as the Marine handed me the flag.
He said, "This is a gift from the President of the
United States in honor of the service that your father
gave to his country".
Five years ago, as my mother died,
I touched her face and held her hand -
something she never allowed when we were children.
I told her everything was all right
and she could let go.
My eyes were dry, she had no funeral.
Later that year,
my husband packed his suitcase.
He told me of his plans
to find his "spiritual path", and left.
I said nothing and went inside.
But last night, my sweet little Aussie
stumbled and fell, unable to move.
With wide eyes slightly opaque,
her dear face grey around the muzzle,
she told me, its time.
This sweet companion,
faithful and brave, has only asked
for my presence in her life.
This morning, I awoke,
and I cried a child,
with my mouth open,