Small Stone For January 24, 2015

stoneHours go by when I’m OK, when I forget that I’m a fatherless child now, and life goes on like always.  Then the slightest thing, a word, a phrase of Mozart, the butterfly kiss of memory, brushes across the empty socket of his loss, sets off a twinge of “Wish you were here,”  and the emptiness tolls like a silent bell.

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