Bitter coffee, that stage of not sweetening it but taking it like family or history. Being a man, being a martyr. Be not afraid. In dim light in the barn gathering hay I pause to imagine her helping me and am briefly dizzy with the intensity of possibly reaching the end of this lifelong loneliness. There is always a familiar sufferance. Route nine bends in a slow half-circle coming down the Windsor hill, more or less a straight shot to the Main Street cut off. Nobody knows the troubles I've seen but they've had hints and intimations and I'm not done talking, not by a long . . . but wait. What if Jesus and I and the many hymnists are wrong about how you traverse the lonesome valley? The light changes so fast as dawn becomes day becomes day! How creative one is when at last one is their Father's son. And whose daughter approaches, the earth holy in her silent wake?
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