My grief is a bottomless chasm.
A deep and dark unfillable hole.
Even the ancient oaks here weep for you with their reverently bowed branches and Spanish moss raiments trailing in the evening breezes.
The moon is bright and full and the air thick with tears that mingle with sounds of the southern evening.
The crickets sing low with longing.
I close my eyes.
I hear your voice.
Mom, please don’t cry anymore.
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