I took his glasses home with me;
I took his sweater too.
I wanted to feel close to him,
but he was gone, it's true.
He had a stroke but tarried on,
ten years with half a life.
His gift for words was muted then.
He just motioned to his wife.
But he once sang Happy Birthday
much to our surprise.
Seems there was a place within his brain,
where music never dies.
His trials are all over now;
I pray him blissful sleep.
He still hugs me with his sweater;
I wear it when I weep.
©Geraldine Petrone
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