Poetry By
Mary Sutton-Paul
Published on: 6/11/2008
Shoes
"Who wants to take his shoes?" the nurse asks. Then hands them to my brother who cradles them in his arms close to his chest the way I saw him hold his son for the first time. When we wake in the morning, the heaviness in our bones will tell us this wasn't a dream. We'll be unable to wake ourselves from the sadness. But tonight we are here with him to kiss our fingertips and press them against his forehead, to close his eyes, to pull the crisp, white sheet up over his face, to take home his shoes.
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