How we remembered, and honored our loved ones after they'd been, gone…translated…
My father who's ninety-seven is in his dreams, I didn't wake him. Bring along a poem I just finished, I'd passed through the city ravaged by the rain, through your silent lying on the side, listening to the waves, with the Guanying Mountain in the distances, gazing up at the morning, star.
Dad is slowly losing his memories now, forgotten that you'd, left, forgotten that he'd, cried over you, didn't remember the heartaches. When he'd longed and asked for you, I'd always told him, "mom's watching T.V." or, "mom went to bed already!", then, the small room we were in, fell into, that boundless, silence.
Dad's been blind a long time, with only the dying hearing remained out of his right year, last night, he'd complained of not hearing your calls of late. I'd, modeled after the trembling hands that you had in your Parkinson's, held on to his thin, frail, palm, he'd, smiled and took my hand, kissed it gently, and his, silvery white stubbles, gave me the tingling pains.
At age ninety-seven, dad's still dreaming, I'd not waken him up. The raging rain released a bit, the flowers outside, all fallen to the pavement, the springtime thunder rolled at the tip of the end of the distant, skies, the morning, patted my face gently like you'd done before, reminded me to get a gulp of warm water before I head out. I'd come to before you, patted the plaque of your spirit, I'd brought you a kiss, the kiss that's, kept on your, mind.
So, this is in death, how we remembered our loved ones. We keep these rituals of worship, to keep those whom we'd loved and lost, still alive in the, memories, and somehow, this ritualistic behavior, can help us, cope with death better…
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