The Sixth Day

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It was the sixth day of creation; mother was dressed in black,
she wore her good hat with the veil, “God shouldn’t had done this
to us” she said, at the far end pale workers put together the big
stage of the circus,
“come back home, it’s late”, “which home?” I asked and hugged
the lamp-post of the street,
my young cousin was almost dead, I pushed her behind the closet,

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Mother’s Day Remembrance

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I walked under the old elm trees. It was a cold winter’s day and the air was sharp. There was no one to break the stillness. I was conscious only of the dank smell of wet leaves underfoot and the sheep and cattle grazing peacefully in the paddock across the creek.
At last it was possible to be myself, away from people. My thoughts were in emotional turmoil. Watching death creep insidiously through my mother’s body as cancer claimed her was hard to bear. I tried to grasp the inevitability of losing her. She was noble in her dying, never complained. “Andy’s randy today,” was all she would say when beset with pain.

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