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Her Season in the Sun

“Mom, Mom,

Hey, Mom”

Her sing-song voice

Is carried to me

On a breeze.

I turn to see her,

Arms splayed, hands with palms upturned,

As she spins,

Stumbling in the summer sun.

Her hair, in long plaits,

Is flung out behind her.

The purple ribbons

Have come undone

And cling, precariously.


She stretches her hands out to me.

Her giddiness is irresistible

And I reach out, laughing, to her.

As I close my hands,

Over her tiny fingers,

I fully grasp the nothingness,

And open my eyes,

Once more,

To the emptiness.


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