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DAD

DAD

I still have the red bear you won for me at the fair.
I was young, so were you.
Years later I learned you bought the bear from the carnie.
Today the bear sits in a chair in the dining room.
His fur is faded and dusty, one ear droops.
He wears one of my feeble knitting tries, a belt,
one mom didn’t make me rip out and start over,
or maybe it is woven, no matter.
When I glimpse the bear on my way to the kitchen,
I have a moment of warmth,
that you loved me then and also now.
I see you in the chair in the corner of the hospital room.
You too are faded and worn and droopy.
Go be where the sun shines and the fish bite.
Send me a sign now and then.
And I will remember that shiny new bear and young father,
on a hot summer day at the fair.

(I wrote this in November 2017. My father died in April 2018. I miss him.)

*Photo is of the actual red bear

About the Author———-

Janet Pearce Lawrence resides in an 1860s home in rural northwestern Pennsylvania. She works at the local public library and local high school. In her free time she enjoys gardening, traveling, photography, Netflix binging, and some writing.

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