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1935-1989 | by Eila Mahima
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Give me back my father walking the house

with light clinging to his boots.

Give me back his tape measure, his keys

his dimpled kind smile and perfectly ironed shirts.

Return his kiss curl waved hair, his clean

scent of ivory soap and light gray flannel, his way of

quietly reading the newspaper and his I will make

everything better embrace.Give back his paradoxically

soft working man's hands, which were large enough

to both push and pull the earth at his will, and my request.

Give back the way he'd have held his first freshly born

grandchild... and then his second.


Give me his daydreams on lined paper,

his hope in a blended blue-green ink.


I don't understand this uncontainable grief.

Month after month, year after year,

I have laid myself down and raised myself up,

and not once has this knowledge entered my body

still trying to knit up the emptiness.

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Taken on June 29, 2011