Words
they are my fingers on a face
~Frame the Clouds, Christa Wells~
My father plays his music on guitar.
My mother dances her, sings her, shakes it out with her tambourine.
My baby brother sings in a husky tenor unabashed.
And my Father in heaven?
Sometimes His music is in the golden yellow - my favorite color -
of a muted photo.
Today it was a symphony of suffering.
Amy has been having seizures, because she has a fever and head cold.
I slipped and fell and may have a hairline fracture on my femur
- the big bone in my thigh -
(whatever it is, I can't bear weight on it and it hurts like, well, you know...)
Off to bed.
Hoping for a sweeter serenade tomorrow.
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