| By Gerard Sarnat,
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Favoured : 125 |
Published in : , Poetry |
Voyeuring him bit by bit slip her soiled white undies up, then little by little lift her dead-weight body down off the elevated handicapped john; now I recall a once freckled red-haired, smiling young woman: the only mother who tidied my bottom, later taught me how to toss baseballs and hit tennis backhands -- while Dad was too busy in the hospital or lab.
Today, maybe eighty years since he vowed NEVER to drop his guard like my grandfather did; perhaps thirty years after his older brother went missing on retirement day -- found in his Buick sedan off the Cross Bronx Expressway when snows finally thawed -- he tends to his wife with so much love and compassion that it makes me cry, not totally sadly.
Gerard Sarnat has intermittently worked and played and visited his children living throughout New York City for over forty years. He is a father of three, seeker and Jewbu, physician to the disenfranchised, past CEO and Stanford professor, and virginal writer 'til the tender age of sixty. He now splits time between his Northern California forest home and Southern California's beaches, where he and his wife care for their first grandson.
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