One sharp pain. One utterance of surprise. Oh. He leaves no great philosophies. There are no medals, no headstone. Only a few strings left attached to this world. Letters in government files The sacrifice a mother makes to prove her relation to the boy whose life is opened up on paper for a pension she is denied. Is it invasion to hang on their every word -- the words of intimacy and filial love in these letters? I am his family too and he is mine. These strings scribbled on cheap, creased stationery little ways of knowing a great deal (though I knew him without knowing it all my life ). Apologizing for his handwriting and blaming his pen. Butter from a country doctor as he sits in a hospital bed. No letters from home yet. Despair in one string, bravado in another; A book sent home to remember him by and I'm a tuff buck now. Have brother plant these pair seeds They be big as a fist and From Vermont. He spells as he spoke: haint, dast, Upstate I be The book cost me dear. The last string of words money sent home for mother's new house never be afraid to ask, I gladly go without. He is my muse and my relation All these years later a picture is found and we look the same. I've known him and I have no doubts. Never question God's creative force, or His happy coincidences. The heavens open sometimes and the saints speak and pray -- happy for reunion.
Yet we are courageous, and we would rather leave the body and go home to the Lord.2 Corinthians 5:8
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