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"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Grief

Easter is the memory;then and now. Easter in spring and church on Sunday; a farmhouse, a white hat. A Billiards room downstairs, an organ in the anteroom. Morning. I used to paint your toenails. You always had plenty of TastyKakes on hand. The Butterscotch Krimpets were your favorite. After the heart attack you switched to Snackwells, you lost your lap, moved to an apartment. You loved treats, always like a little girl, and we would stay up late and talk. Your bed was so high it took a step stool to get into. It was so soft. You had a driveway that was a mile long, behind a gate, up a hill. We rode our power wheels on it. You had a carport that went DOWN so steep. It always scared me. The spiral stairs down to the Billiards room were steep too. They also scared me. I loved that farm. I loved you. I'm glad you're going back home. Still, Gone is a bad word.

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