Whenever we left
she wept, never knowing which
time would be the last.
(Sometimes, poetry is simply laying the ghosts out in the daylight.)
That hits a nerve just now, Rosalind. As Dad’s dementia deepens, there have already been a lot of last times, most not recognized for what they were at the time.
Love to you, Melanie, and loving prayers for you and your dad. I wish I could offer more.
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