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IMG_9642

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I hear it sing

through the kitchen window

your old wind chime

its long weathered pipes

clanging across the wetlands

echoing up the hillside.

You wave to me now

smiling

from the crest

of a mighty gale

roaring through the heavens

and away.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(For my late son Arlie, who would be turning 45 on July 29th)

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There’s no warning.

Grief leaks from my eyes

staining my cheeks

the same way

my blouse

became soaked

with milk

between feedings

when he was an infant.

It’s what happens.

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(c) 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Arlie 12 19 08

Arlie in 2008

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Betty73

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1973 – Happy days. Arlie sitting on his great-grandmother’s lap with older brother Jason.

 

 

 

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To my son Arlie, (1972 – May 25, 2017)

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Now I understand

the keening wail,

the rocking forwards,

backwards

so different

from the lullaby

the cradling

from long ago.

It’s forward, release,

forward

release

the pain

as it bursts through

a damn

in the solar plexus.

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The medics came

from experience

guessing it was a heart attack.

He had keened

his own losses

too many times.

We rock and release,

rock

and release

the keening wail,

the keening wheel

that won’t stop turning

around and around

and around.

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(c) 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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