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a prayer for Bobby

she pressed at her tears

with her red checkered apron

as the tiny, colorless screen

flickered sorrow across the land.

I was a little boy, about 5,

and watched my mother sob.

but I was too young to cry.

after aging to about 11

and living in war and revolt

in my heart

and in my home,

I watched my hero

depart on a dark blue train.

but I was too strong to cry.

and now, as an old man,

while pruning in my garden,

I found new hope

in a fresh sunflower —

a beautiful sprout that had risen

where storms had ravaged before.

so with eyes closed,

I whispered to the wind —

please guide

and protect this flower,

for I am no longer too strong,

nor too young,

to cry.


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