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On That Day
The direness had not reached me yet.
I thought it was a simple problem,
Fixed on that day,
Home in an hour.
Then the news came,
The details, the diagnosis.
We left.
The direness had not reached me yet.
We drove not far,
But it seemed a hundred miles.
We stopped, rushed inside.
The direness had not reached me yet.
We had to walk, one at a time,
Down the silent linoleum hall.
I was last.
The direness had not reached me yet.
I made my way
down that cold, silent hallway.
Crossed my arms, uncrossed them,
strapped them to my sides.
The direness had not reached me yet
The last room on the left.
A flimsy pane of glass,
a thin, green curtain
Is all that separated one from the other.
The direness had not reached me yet.
I walked in; minutes passed, things were said.
Hugs, kisses, goodbyes, the beeping of machines.
I walked out down that long, cool hall,
stomach in knots, fighting back tears.
The direness had not reached me yet
One year passed from that day,
April fifteenth, a Sunday.
There is still a dent.
The scars still remain, added to three times.
The direness has not reached me yet.
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