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In the dim light of
Dusk, following the season’s
First snow, Todd unloads

The dishwasher. Stacks
Of ceramic, handfuls of
Silver are gleaming

And put in place. I
Lie there, listening. Moments
Are measured. Cupboards’

Metal magnets snap
Shut from shaky hinges while
Drawers slide open and

Shut on old tracks as
If talking to each other.
My legs, supported

By the back of the
Couch, arms creased at the elbows,
Hands cupped over heart

Still weighted from sleep.
I shut my eyes, corralling
Sensations. Beneath

The wood floor, boiler
Churns and exhales while our dog
Paces, circles and

Senses she will have
To wait for supper. Soon I
Will understand why,

My father put on his watch,
Over-shirt, hung the

Beeper from his neck,
Slipped on socks and a pair of
Slippers six times a

Night to take measured
Steps to the bathroom. Control.
What if he fell? Now,

From the kitchen, Todd
Turns on the faucet, water
Races past my thoughts.

In the distance I
hear the sound of chimes singing,
“Calling all Angels!”

Outside the leaves are
Covered with intricately
Woven snowflakes—Grace

Covering thousands
Of intricately woven
Souls. I rise and take

Measured steps across
The floor, remembering my
Dad, then feed the dog.

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