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   u n t i t l e d    #6

--- L I N D A   Z I S Q U I T

from My Mother's Death

Four weeks have passed now. The details are no less blurred or clear than on that Tuesday when her breathing eased and her temperature stabled and it seemed, as always in those frames of family event, it would go on that way forever, till the eyes opened and the heart expanded and then ceased to beat. Yesterday I received a photo of her high school portrait and quickly (unlike me) I framed it and set it out for all to see. When- ever someone entered or passed they asked at first who? then could it be you? that is, me? and of course it couldn't, the hair soft in thirties style around the face, the eyes dreamy, accepting, urgent only in their aftermath of dream, when acceptance comes to mean response to love, disappointment, and the power of her knowledge then was to suffer well, but I was moved by the asking, proud of the possibility of looking like her, charmed that her dying offer me this gift of accepting well.

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