I
remember November
And the day, and the cold fog clinging to my cheeks.
It
was the day the black cars were waiting
With their headlights glowing,
The
day the people were treading slowly
From the white and silent chapel.
Then
Eugene came.
He was emerging into the vague light of the fog,
Floating silently in his bed of flowers,
Now
beyond danger,
Beyond
pain and memory,
Beyond
the sounds of his mother weeping.
I
remember that day,
And the slow moving headlights gliding past my
vantage,
And the cold damp air dripping
Down
my collar.
I
followed quietly.
There
was no sound save the crunch
Of gravel as I stepped, no sight but the white light
Of the covered sun.
I
could not see his new home.
There
was no sight of the priest
Hypnotized in prayer,
No
sight of the mother pleading for a second chance.
No
sight…
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