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In Passing Seated on a cement bench, city owned, with advertisement posting a 1-800-Divorce number against my back, overlooking a park with a playground: children: a pond; ducks; I eat my lunch. The day is bright, the season young. I still find it hard to imagine the reason I am here. Behind me, St. Joseph's lurking shadow. Like a tumor, the hospice center. Dad, in the process of dying do you still find a certain rarity in life? Are there days.... moments perhaps which stand out? Is it possible to acknowledge anything earthbound, the skylight as it splendors itself across the bed? You've grown quiet. Resting. Restless? This morning as I boarded the city bus, I spotted a group of sparrows zig-zagging across the sidewalk toward a crust of bread. They reminded me of something, insignificant to most, yet, you would have marveled at. Their bickering. I wish I knew. How to respond to your loosening, dad, I wish I knew.
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