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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 2, June 2015

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Adelaide B. Shaw
Millbrook, New York, USA


Last Hours

My father, at 106 years old, is passing away his life, day by day, hour by hour. While visiting him I sit and watch him breathe as he dozes.

his dry hand in mine
autumn leaves gather
on the welcome mat

In between naps we talk of family, of memories. I think it helps him in this transitional place between living and dying to remember. The past he knows. The present is unpleasant. The future is a mystery, either finite in the ground or eternal in some ethereal world of faith and myth.

nightly lullaby
always the same song
in his native tongue

Each morning he wakes and waits.

sunset
another day stolen
from eternity

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