My father

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I am older than my father lived to be; his death was more than half my life ago. My children, not yet alive while he still breathed, faces without form whilst he had sight, voices still unspoken while he still heard, are older now than I was the day his heart forgot to beat again, the day my heart broke into its new rhythm. Bereaved. Bereaved. Bereft.
And now, it’s Father’s Day once more. I still mourn the cards I no longer send. But the sun that warms my skin, once drew freckles on his arms. The moon that lights my nights with silver, frosted his yester-skies. And my sometimes cloud-swallowed stars are the same that sometimes hid from him. And I see him everywhere. And I hear him every day. And my heart beats with the rhythms he taught me. And I thank God for every heartbeat. For every breath. For every moment. And I know that there is no bereaved in eternity.

Dad smiling

Dad smiling

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