Break not this heart tomorrow,
the day of my father’s death;
let his last breathing,
the final anger against prayers
unanswered, never heard
be far from me and let the life
he lived enough testimony
of an eternity that cannot leave
here and now. I have his hands,
my sister says; his eyes and heart
and trust. What more could
a son ask for? To hear him
call my name once more.
To answer, “Yes.”
-Byron Hoot
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