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It was getting late
when he finally fell asleep—his
breath going out to never come back again.
His father lie on one side, holding
his hand, and his mother on the other, holding
his head to her breast.
His mother only looked up,
past their bodies,
past the machines and their tubes,
past the sill and its flowers, out
past the sun and its remnants hiding behind the mountains.
“It’s getting late,” she said, beginning
to hum his favorite bedtime song, laying
his head on the pillow.
His father nodded, pulling
the blanket up, tucking
it under his son’s shoulders and placing
a bear beside him—everything
being just the way he always wanted.
“Goodnight, my love,” his mother whispered, running
her fingers through his curls, thinking
it was about time for another haircut.
“I love you,” his father said, holding
his son’s cheeks in his palms, kissing
him on the forehead. “We’ll see you at first light.”
And they left, driving
out of the city, looking
for the place
Submitted by Scott Wilson, Chaplain
Benton Hospice Service
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