A year after my father's death, the second year, the third and time goes
From my journal on my father’s death and that first year. I can be certain that in year two, three, five and...the carrying of carrying on is still carried. The pack of unsaid words, moments of wish-you-were-here, the wondering of whys, the new hellos, the signs and symbols of what was, the thankfulness of knowing what was, the discoveries, the memory, the honor and pride runs in you, it grows, it grows you, your heart, while carrying them on.
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