My two little brothers, from a fraternity sense,
A lifetime gone from the daily pretense,
Of growing, posturing, searching, competing,
Of thinking, choosing, studying, completing,
Both giving more than they could possibly take,
Both leaving borders for not-too-far-states,
Yet somehow their stories were always nearby,
Small-town existence leaves a well of close ties,
After thirty-five years, in a space of two months,
Tragedy brings them to the mind’s forefront,
One lost his wife, the other, his daughter,
The worst two fears of a husband or father,
Each with a healthy respect for our Lord,
The healing a bill they both can afford,
That doesn’t soften the pain of departure,
Or answer the questions, still yet to ponder.
copyright 2017
Picture – From The Woodpile At Dusk, 2-15-17 by Andrew Spradling
words of honor
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Thank you, Joe. Much-appreciated.
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