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I was Six.

Out in the country, down 1736.
That is where my grandpa laid sick.
Lungs filled with black from the cancer.
The nurse said he was fine but we wouldn't believe her.

Dim sky and wind that could blow you over.
Lying in his death bed with his beloved Saltine crackers.
He still didn't suppress his laughter.
Surrounded by close family and friends.
Surely this couldn't be the end.
I was six.

I thought everything was okay.
I wondered why my Papa looked so frail.
Nothing could happen to him...
He as Superman.
I was six.

The door closed behind us.
Everything seemed okay
So we drove away.
When we got home the phone rang and
it began to rain.
"Papa has passed way"

How could this happen?
I didn't say goodbye.
But pretty soon there was not a cloud in the sky.
I was six.

We buried my grandpa when
I was six.





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