All I Was Afraid Of Is Saying

You'll Come To My Grave? To Tell Me Your Problems?" My Problems? "yes.' And You'll Give Me Answers? "i'll Give You What I Can. Don't I Always?" I Picture His Grave, On The Hill, Overlooking The Pond, Some Little Nine Foot Piece Of Earth Where They Will Place Him, Cover Him With Dirt, Put A Stone On Top. Maybe In A Few Weeks? Maybe In A Few Days? I See Myself Sitting There Alone, Arms Across My Knees, Staring Into Space. It Won't Be The Same, I Say, Not Being Able To Hear You Talk. "ah, Talk . . . " He Closes His Eyes And Smiles. "tell You What. After I'm Dead, You Talk. And I'll Listen.

A Wind Blew, And The Sand Around His Drawing Scattered. He Wrapped His Fingers Inside His Wife's, And Father Time Rekindled A Connection He Had Only Ever Had With Her. He Surrendered To That Sensation And Felt The Final Drops Of Their Lives Touch One Another, Like Water In A Cave, Top Meets Bottom, Heaven Meets Earth. As Their Eyes Closed, A Different Set Of Eyes Opened, And They Rose From The Ground As A Shared South, Up And Up, A Sun And A Moon In A Single Sky.

I Give Myself A Good Cry If I Need It. But Then I Concentrate On The Good Things Still In My Life. I Don't Allow Myself Any More Self-pity Than That. A Little Each Every Morning, A Few Tears, And That's All.

Love Like Rain, Can Nourish From Above, Drenching Couples With Soaking Joy. But Sometimes, Under The Angry Heat Of Life, Love Dries On The Surface And Must Nourish From Below, Tending To Its Roots, Keeping Itself Alive.

First And Foremost, I Would Put A Massive National Emphasis On Illiteracy With Real Markers That You Could Measure And Real Efforts To Do A One-on-one Kind Of Tutoring Until Kids Can Get Up To Snuff On That.