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White life
You always loved white, Mom; you loved
its cleanness, its purity. It was the colour
of your walls in the room where you died,
it was your body’s milk you fed
your newborn children.
I hated the cancer because it took your white
away, bit-by-bit the whites of your eyes
yellowed, your teeth discoloured, your skin
went grey like the ashes of a cigarette. At the last,
it took away the bright white light of your life.
But you know Mom, I can still see that light on us,
the same as always. It glints in Rob’s eyes
when he speaks of travel, dances around Peggy’s
Spanish tongue. It plays golden games
with Tricia’s hair and softens Dave’s devilish grin.
It’s still the light Dad sees by, it’s the light
that lets me read this. We can’t see its source
anymore but your life is everywhere, diffuse.
Slipped behind the clouds now, your love
will always light the way home.
Michael Lucas
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