I heard that song. The dreamy, melancholy one.
A father to a child.
And had a moment –you know the ones—
where the world becomes a film and the song a soundtrack.
I looked out at the sunlit day, the lazily turning autumn leaves.
And imagined your child, man-child, in among the tubes and wires and sounds.
Your exhausted wife at vigil.
And the man sings, “May all your days be gold, my child.”
This day is gold. This moment, light here, miles away.
Dark where you are, even at noon, waiting for rare, bright moments of hope—
flashing for a moment here and for a moment there.
The spaces between
shapeless, long, and gray.
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