“The ripest pathos becomes the animating gurgle of
air bubbles from the soul in the depths.”
You were dying. Father. Came to you with both hands. Could not see me. Only Pain. Old things long forgotten. Time and space passed by, your face gaunt and thin.
“ I don’t want to live like this..” coming out between air bubbles around your Mouth. Talked about the old farm and killing chickens. Chasing little pigs around a fenced yard: not seen this place, nor heard of it , no pictures into words, as if we were
there. Your dreams living back,. When time would stand with you, as a friend: listen to everything. Like a good young dog. Following you. Now its time, to say goodbye. Then it’s over and I miss you. She misses you: All you family were there. Final goodbyes. At the funeral home. Then we carried you. Six of your brothers and, sons. To your grave.